IT BEGAN ON A STORMLESS NIGHT IN VALMONTA—A TOWN

NESTLED BETWEEN DENSE PINE FORESTS AND CRUMBLING

OLD CATHEDRALS. TIME MOVED SLOWER HERE. THE WIND

CARRIED STORIES, AND THE SHADOWS HAD MEMORY.

IN A SMALL THIRD-FLOOR APARTMENT ABOVE A QUIET

BAKERY, FIORA STIRRED FROM HER SLEEP.

THE AIR WAS STILL, BUT SOMETHING HAD CHANGED.

“FIO. . .RA. . .”

A WHISPER—BARELY AUDIBLE, YET PIERCING. IT WASN’T A

SOUND MEANT TO BE HEARD. IT WAS MEANT TO REACH.

FIORA’S EYES FLEW OPEN. HER HEART THUDDED LOUD

ENOUGH TO FILL THE SILENCE. SHE SAT UP, BRUSHING AWAY

THE STRANDS OF HAIR STICKING TO HER CHEEK,

LISTENING.

NOTHING.

HER HAND REACHED FOR HER PHONE, AN OLD ROTARY￾STYLE DEVICE WITH A MODERN HEART. IT WAS DEAD.

BUT IT WAS JUST WORKING A FEW HOURS AGO. SHE HAD

PLUGGED IT IN, WATCHED THE BATTERY RISE BEFORE SLEEP

TOOK HER.

CHILLS CREPT UP HER SPINE.

SHE LOOKED AT THE TIME—3: 0 5 AM. THE HANDS OF THE

ANTIQUE CLOCK TICKED STEADILY, AS IF NOTHING

UNUSUAL HAD HAPPENED.

SHE LAY BACK DOWN, COVERS TIGHT, TRYING TO BREATHE

SLOW.

THE NEXT NIGHT, IT HAPPENED AGAIN. AND THE NEXT.

ALWAYS AT 3: 0 5 . ALWAYS THE WHISPER. ALWAYS THE NAME.

SHE TRIED SLEEPING AT HER FRIEND’S HOME, THINKING

MAYBE IT WAS JUST. . . THE PLACE. BUT THE WHISPER

FOLLOWED. EVEN IN ANOTHER BUILDING.

STILL, SHE SAID NOTHING. A 2 3-YEAR-OLD WOMAN

TRAINING TO BE A PILOT WASN’T SUPPOSED TO BE AFRAID

OF GHOSTS.

UNTIL THAT EVENING—8 PM—STANDING OUTSIDE HER

APARTMENT.

SHE LOOKED UP, AND FROZE.

THERE, IN HER WINDOW, WAS A WOMAN. PALE. MOTIONLESS.

HER HAIR FALLING DOWN LIKE THICK BLACK VINES. A

WHITE DRESS FADED INTO THE DIM ORANGE OF THE

STREETLIGHT. HER EYES. . . LOCKED ONTO FIORA’S.

THAT GAZE PIERCED HER SOUL.

THAT NIGHT DIDN’T JUST SCARE FIORA. IT AWAKENED

SOMETHING INSIDE HER. CURIOSITY. A STRANGE HUNGER

FOR ANSWERS. THE FEAR TWISTED INTO FASCINATION.

SOMETHING SHE NEVER THOUGHT SHE'D FEEL TOWARD THE

THINGS THAT HAUNTED HER.

THAT WAS THE BEGINNING OF HER PATH.

THE ONE THAT WOULD LEAD HER STRAIGHT TO LUCA

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

WEEK HAD PASSED SINCE FIORA FIRST SAW THE ENTITY IN HER WINDOW. HER

NIGHTS STILL ECHOED WITH WHISPERS, BUT HER HEART NO LONGER TREMBLED. IT

RACED WITH QUESTIONS INSTEAD.

SHE HAD BEGUN RESEARCHING—LIBRARY ARCHIVES, OLD BOOKS, ANY SCRAP OF

KNOWLEDGE ABOUT HAUNTINGS AND SPIRITS. HER INTEREST WAS BLOOMING LIKE AN

OBSESSION. THAT’S WHEN SHE STUMBLED UPON THE COLLEGE ELECTIVE:

PARANORMAL THEORY AND METAPHYSICS. AND THE NAME THAT KEPT POPPING UP IN

WHISPERED CONVERSATIONS AROUND CAMPUS?

LUCA.

THE BOY NO ONE REALLY KNEW.

HE WASN’T POPULAR, NOR LOUD. HE WAS A PRESENCE FELT MORE THAN SEEN.

ALWAYS IN THE BACK ROW, SCRIBBLING NOTES WITH UNMATCHED FOCUS. LEAN,

BROWN-SKINNED, ALWAYS IN OVERSIZED WHITE SHIRTS, AND HIS SOFT MIDDLE￾PARTED HAIR CONSTANTLY FALLING INTO HIS EYES. PEOPLE CALLED HIM ODD, BUT

THEY DIDN’T KNOW.

FIORA WAS CURIOUS.

THAT DAY, THE AIR OUTSIDE WAS UNUSUALLY WARM FOR VALMONTA. SHE HAD

TAKEN A BREAK FROM HER NEW OBSESSION AND WANDERED INTO THE ELANTE MALL

—A RARE, MODERN STRUCTURE IN A TOWN STILL CLINGING TO ITS PAST. SHE NEEDED

SPACE. SHE NEEDED FRIES.

AS SHE WALKED THROUGH THE ENTRANCE, HER EYES CAUGHT A FIGURE SLOUCHED

ON A BENCH TO THE RIGHT,

CLUTCHING HIS KNEE.

IT WAS HIM.

LUCA.

THERE WAS A CUT ON HIS LEG, FRESH AND BLEEDING THROUGH THE CLOTH. HE

WASN’T FLINCHING, JUST QUIETLY TENDING TO IT WITH THE CORNER OF HIS SLEEVE.

BEFORE SHE COULD OVERTHINK IT, FIORA WALKED UP.

“ARE YOU OKAY?” SHE ASKED, NERVOUS BUT FIRM.

HE LOOKED UP, SURPRISED. “YEAH. . . JUST CLUMSY. SLIPPED NEAR THE FOUNTAIN.”

SHE KNELT, OPENED HER BAG, AND PULLED OUT TISSUES AND A MINI FIRST AID KIT.

HE BLINKED. “YOU CARRY THAT AROUND?”

“I LIKE BEING PREPARED,” SHE REPLIED, DABBING THE WOUND.

THE AIR BETWEEN THEM SOFTENED.

“WANT TO HEAD TO THE FOOD COURT UPSTAIRS?” SHE ASKED AFTER A MOMENT.

HE NODDED.

TOP FLOOR. ELANTE MALL. FOOD COURT.

THEY SAT SIDE BY SIDE, HANDS AWKWARDLY CLOSE ON THE TABLE. THEY HAD ORDERED A BURGER AND

A SANDWICH, EACH PRETENDING THE OTHER WASN’T STEALING GLANCES.

THEN LUCA SPOTTED IT—A SMALL, LONE FLOWER IN A GLASS JAR ON THE TABLE. IT LOOKED SILLY

THERE, MISPLACED, BUT SOMETHING ABOUT IT FELT... PERFECT.

HE PLUCKED IT.

AND BEFORE FIORA COULD REACT, HE GENTLY TUCKED IT BEHIND HER EAR, SMILING PLAYFULLY.

“LOOKS BETTER ON YOU THAN IN A JAR.”

HER HEART SKIPPED.

THEY LAUGHED, TALKED, AND FOR ONCE, EVERYTHING FELT SIMPLE. EASY.

“WANT TO WATCH A MOVIE?” SHE ASKED.

HE NODDED AGAIN.

CINEMA HALL. LAST ROW. LEFT CORNER.

THE THEATER WAS DIM, COLD. SHE WAS SHIVERING LIGHTLY, HIDING IT BEHIND CROSSED ARMS.

LUCA NOTICED.

HE SHIFTED, SUBTLY WRAPPING AN ARM AROUND HER SHOULDER.

SHE DIDN’T RESIST.

SHE LEANED IN, HEAD RESTING AGAINST HIS CHEST.

THEY WHISPERED THROUGHOUT THE MOVIE. SMILING. JOKING. SLOWLY FORGETTING THE SHADOWS

THAT HAUNTED THEM.

A LOUD SCENE BLARED, AND SHE MISSED WHAT HE SAID TWICE.

“I SAID YOU’RE CUTE,” HE REPEATED, LOUDER.

THEN, WITHOUT THINKING, HE LEANED IN AND KISSED HER CHEEK.

SHE FROZE.

THEN TURNED HER FACE AWAY—BLUSHING CRIMSON.

OUTSIDE, THE RAIN HAD STARTED. A SOFT, MELODIC DRIZZLE THAT PAINTED VALMONTA SILVER.

IN THE TAXI BACK TO COLLEGE, THEY SAT CLOSE. SHE LOOKED OUT THE WINDOW, WATCHING DROPLETS

RACE. THEN, SHE TURNED TOWARD HIM.

THEIR EYES MET.

HE MOVED SLIGHTLY, LEANING IN FOR A KISS—BUT SHE TURNED AWAY.

HE TENSED.

BUT THEN, AFTER A PAUSE, SHE TURNED BACK, GRABBED HIS COLLAR—AND KISSED HIM.

HARD.

NO HESITATION. THEIR LIPS MOVED WITH A HUNGER THEY DIDN’T UNDERSTAND. SHE CLIMBED OVER,

INTO HIS LAP, THE RAIN BLURRING THE WORLD OUTSIDE. ALL THAT REMAINED WAS HEAT, BREATH, AND

THE SCENT OF RAINWATER AND NERVES.

THEIR STORY HAD JUST BEGUN.

BUT NEITHER OF THEM KNEW THAT WHAT TIED THEM TOGETHER… RAN DEEPER THAN LOVE.

IT REACHED ACROSS LIFETIMES.

THE CLOCK TICKED PAST NOON IN THE SUN-WARMED CLASSROOM. DUST FLOATED

LAZILY IN THE SUNLIGHT CUTTING THROUGH TALL ARCHED WINDOWS, AND THE

SOFT HUM OF A BORING LECTURE FILLED THE AIR.

FIORA WAS HALF-ASLEEP, HER CHEEK RESTING AGAINST HER CURLED PALM. HER EYES

KEPT CLOSING EVERY FEW SECONDS, FIGHTING BACK THE HEAVINESS OF THE NIGHT

SHE COULDN’T SHAKE OFF. THAT SAME WHISPER. THAT SAME COLD.

SHE DIDN’T NOTICE WHEN THE TEACHER’S VOICE ROSE.

“FIORA!”

SHE JUMPED UP, BLINKING.

“Y-YES, MA’AM?”

“YOU’RE SLEEPING IN MY CLASS AGAIN. ARE YOU ALRIGHT?”

EVERYONE CHUCKLED. FIORA SMILED AWKWARDLY AND NODDED. “SORRY, JUST. . .

TIRED.”

THE TEACHER SIGHED AND WENT BACK TO HER LESSON, AND FIORA LET OUT A SMALL

BREATH, SINKING BACK IN HER CHAIR.

AT LUNCH BREAK, SHE SAT IN THE GARDEN NEAR THE OLD STONE WALL, A TRAY OF

BARELY-TOUCHED PASTA IN FRONT OF HER. ACROSS HER SAT ALESSIA, HER

ROOMMATE AND ONLY REAL FRIEND IN THIS CITY. THE BREEZE TOUSLED HER WAVY

HAIR AS SHE SQUINTED AT FIORA.

“YOU’VE BEEN ACTING WEIRD LATELY. WHAT’S GOING ON?” ALESSIA ASKED, POKING AT

HER OWN FOOD WITH A FORK.

FIORA GAVE HER A HALF-SMILE. “IT’S NOTHING.”

“OH COME ON, FIORA. YOU’RE NOT EATING, YOU LOOK LIKE YOU HAVEN’T SLEPT IN

WEEKS, AND YOU JUMPED LIKE SOMEONE SET YOU ON FIRE IN CLASS TODAY. SPILL IT.”

FIORA PICKED AT HER SANDWICH. “IT’S JUST. . . I DON’T KNOW. EVER SINCE THAT

NIGHT, THINGS HAVE BEEN. . . OFF.”

“YOU MEAN THE VOICE THING?”

FIORA NODDED.

“YOU ALREADY KNOW WHAT I THINK. YOU DIDN’T TAKE YOUR MEDICINE THAT NIGHT,

REMEMBER?”

“ALESSIA,” FIORA SAID SOFTLY, “YOU REALLY THINK THAT’S WHAT IT WAS? A SIDE

EFFECT? I’VE HAD THIS CONDITION FOR YEARS. I’VE SKIPPED MEDICINE BEFORE — NOT

PROUD OF IT, BUT — IT’S NEVER BEEN LIKE THIS.”

SHE STARED AT THE GRASS.

“I LEFT MY BUSINESS COLLEGE IN THIRD YEAR, EVEN THOUGH I WAS A DAMN

TOPPER. I DIDN’T EVEN JOIN MY FATHER’S COMPANY. I WAS SUPPOSED TO BE DOING

SOMETHING BIG, SOMETHING REAL. AND NOW I’M HERE. . . CHASING SHADOWS IN

MY HEAD.”

NOW. YOU CHOSE THIS PATH.”

“I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHY I CHOSE THIS PATH,” FIORA WHISPERED. “MAYBE. . . MAYBE I

JUST WANTED TO UNDERSTAND WHAT’S HAPPENING TO ME.”

FOR A MOMENT, NEITHER OF THEM SPOKE.

FIORA TRIED TO SHAKE IT OFF AND SMILED, BRUSHING SOME PASTA TOWARD ALESSIA.

“WANT MINE?”

“NO THANKS, I DON’T EAT HAUNTED CARBS,” ALESSIA GRINNED.

FIORA LAUGHED. A REAL ONE THIS TIME. “YOU’RE THE WORST.”

“LOVE YOU TOO.”

LATER THAT DAY – BADMINTON PERIOD

THE SKY HAD STARTED TO DIM, CASTING LONG SHADOWS ON THE OLD STONE WALLS

OF THE CAMPUS COURT. THE GYM BUZZED WITH LIFE — SNEAKERS SQUEAKING,

SHUTTLECOCKS FLYING, AND STUDENTS LAUGHING.

EVERYONE WAS PLAYING.

EVERYONE — EXCEPT FIORA AND LUCA.

FIORA SAT NEAR THE BENCHES, HER SNEAKERS LOOSELY TIED, EYES WATCHING THE

OTHERS PLAY WITHOUT INTEREST. BADMINTON WASN’T REALLY HER THING. SHE WAS

MORE OF A FOOTBALL GIRL. SHE LIKED WILD GAMES. BRUISES. THAT FEELING OF

RUNNING WITHOUT THINKING.

BUT RIGHT NOW, HER ATTENTION WAS STUCK ON HIM.

LUCA.

HE WAS ON THE THIRD BENCH, HEAD TILTED BACK, EYES CLOSED. HIS FINGERS RESTED

TIREDLY ON THE DESK LIKE HE WAS HOLDING ONTO SLEEP. HIS FACE LOOKED WORN

OUT — THE KIND OF TIRED YOU DON’T GET FROM JUST ONE BAD NIGHT.

PEOPLE THOUGHT HE WAS JUST A QUIET WEIRDO. THE KIND YOU IGNORE UNLESS HE

BUMPS INTO YOU. BUT FIORA HAD WATCHED HIM DIFFERENTLY, QUIETLY. THERE WAS

SOMETHING ABOUT HIM THAT WASN’T. . . NORMAL.

NOT IN A CREEPY WAY.

IN A TOO-QUIET KIND OF WAY. LIKE HE KNEW SOMETHING THE REST DIDN’T.

SHE STOOD UP, WALKED TOWARD THE BENCH, A STRANGE PULL IN HER CHEST.

HE DIDN’T MOVE. NOT EVEN WHEN SHE GOT CLOSE. SHE REACHED OUT, HESITATING. . .

THEN GENTLY PLACED HER HAND OVER HIS ON THE WOODEN BENCH.

HIS HAND TWITCHED, BUT HE DIDN’T OPEN HIS EYES.

AND THAT’S WHEN SHE SAW HER AGAIN.

THAT WOMAN.

STANDING RIGHT BEHIND LUCA.

WHITE DRESS. STILL. PALE SKIN. HAIR LOOSE AND SOAKED LIKE SHE HAD WALKED OUT

OF A STORM. EYES. . . EMPTY. FOCUSED. UNBLINKING.

FIORA’S BREATH HITCHED.

HER HEART RACED.

SHE BLINKED.

GONE.

JUST LUCA.

JUST A BENCH.

AND THE LOUD SMASH OF A SHUTTLECOCK AGAINST THE WALL.

ALESSIA FROWNED. “HEY. DON’T TALK LIKE THAT. YOU’RE DOING WHAT YOU WANT