The rain had followed Luna Hayes all the way from the city. Sheets of water blurred the view outside the car window, smudging streetlights into streaks of yellow and white. The cab smelled faintly of damp fabric and cigarette smoke, and the driver hummed low to himself as if the storm outside was nothing unusual.

For Luna, it was more than the weather. It felt like the world itself was mourning alongside her.

She clutched the strap of her worn bag, knuckles white. In the seat beside her rested a small cardboard box—the last of her parents’ belongings that hadn’t been destroyed in the crash. Inside: a cracked photo frame, her mother’s old pendant, and her father’s wristwatch, stopped forever at 11:46 p.m.—the moment the world shattered.

The driver cleared his throat. “Hayes House, right?”

Luna blinked, dragging herself back into the present. “Yes,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

The cab turned down a narrow road lined with towering pines that swayed like dark sentinels. The deeper they went, the more the town seemed to vanish behind them. By the time the headlights caught the looming outline of the Hayes House, Luna’s stomach had already tightened into a knot.

The house was bigger than she remembered from her childhood visits. Gothic in its bones, with ivy crawling up its sides and windows like black, watching eyes. A place that carried both history and secrets.

Her aunt, Marjorie, was waiting on the porch with a lantern in hand. Her face, pale and round, lit up with relief as the car stopped.

“Oh, Luna!” she exclaimed the moment the girl stepped out. “You’re here. Safe and sound.”

Marjorie smelled of lavender and old books when she embraced her niece. For a moment, Luna let herself sink into the hug, craving warmth. But even then, she couldn’t shake the feeling of being observed.

And then she saw him.

Rick stood at the top of the steps, taller than she remembered, his broad shoulders framed against the storm. His dark hair clungs damply to his forehead, and his eyes—green, sharp, unblinking—locked on hers the way a hawk watches prey.

“Welcome home, Luna,” he said. His voice was deeper now, steadier, carrying a weight that unsettled her.

Luna managed a smile, small and fragile. “It’s… good to see you again, Rick.”

His lips twitched in what should have been a smile, but wasn’t. “It’s been too long.”

---

Inside, the house smelled of wood polish and faint smoke from the fireplace. Marjorie fussed with the kettle in the kitchen, leaving Luna and Rick alone in the wide, dimly lit living room.

“You’ve changed,” Rick said, his gaze lingering on her as though cataloging every detail.

“So have you,” Luna replied cautiously.

His eyes softened for a moment, though his stare never wavered. “You look… different. Grown.”

Luna shifted in her seat, uncomfortable under the weight of his words. She tried to remind herself: this was Rick, the boy who used to chase her through the garden, who once bandaged her knee when she fell. But the warmth she remembered seemed to have drained from him, replaced by something she couldn’t quite name.

“Things will be better now,” Rick said suddenly, almost fiercely. “You don’t have to worry anymore. I’ll take care of you.”

The words should have been comforting. Instead, they left her chilled.

---

Later that night, in her new bedroom, Luna unpacked the cardboard box, setting her mother’s pendant on the nightstand. The room was quiet except for the steady beat of rain against the window. She pulled the blanket around her shoulders, staring into the dark.

A faint sound made her freeze.

A floorboard creaked outside her door.

Her pulse quickened, her breath shallow. She told herself it was the house, old and restless. But then came the shadow beneath the door—long, unmoving. Someone was standing there.

Luna’s throat tightened. She waited. The shadow didn’t move for what felt like forever, and then, slowly, it retreated.

The silence returned.

But Luna knew she hadn’t imagined it. Someone had been there. Watching.

And she already knew who it was.

The storm had passed by morning, leaving the world damp and glistening. Mist clung low to the ground as if reluctant to leave, wrapping the Hayes property in a pale shroud.

Luna woke early, her body still tense from the night before. She hadn’t slept much. Every time she closed her eyes, she swore she could hear footsteps outside her door—soft, deliberate, as though someone lingered just to remind her she wasn’t alone.

She pushed the thought aside, forcing herself to breathe. It’s just the house. Old wood creaks. Nothing more.

When she descended the stairs, the smell of coffee and toasted bread greeted her. Aunt Marjorie was bustling in the kitchen, humming cheerfully.

“Morning, darling!” Marjorie said, beaming when she saw her niece. “I made your favorite—scrambled eggs with cheese. I remember you loved them when you were little.”

Luna smiled politely, touched by the effort. “Thanks, Aunt Marjorie.”

Before she could sit, she noticed Rick already at the table. He leaned back in his chair, half in shadow, a steaming mug in front of him. His eyes lifted to hers, sharp and unblinking.

“You didn’t sleep,” he said. Not asked—stated.

Luna hesitated, her fingers tightening on the back of the chair. “I… guess I’m still adjusting.”

Rick tilted his head slightly, studying her. “You used to talk in your sleep when we were kids. I remember. You’d call out for your mother.”

Her stomach tightened. She glanced toward Aunt Marjorie, but her aunt was too busy fussing with the kettle to notice.

Rick’s gaze lingered. “I’ll make sure you don’t have to wake up afraid anymore.”

Luna sat down quickly, breaking eye contact. The warmth of the eggs and toast on her plate did little to ease the chill crawling across her skin.

After breakfast, Marjorie left for town, insisting she needed groceries and new candles for the house. That left Luna alone with Rick.

She wandered into the library, the one room she remembered fondly. Dusty shelves stretched high, filled with books bound in cracked leather. A large window overlooked the back garden, where roses tangled in wild abandon.

Luna traced her finger along the spine of a book, enjoying the quiet—until she realized she wasn’t alone.

Rick leaned against the doorway, arms folded.

“You always loved this room,” he said softly.

Luna startled, clutching the book to her chest. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

His lips curved faintly. “I move quietly.”

He stepped closer, his eyes never leaving hers. “I kept the library clean while you were gone. I knew you’d come back.”

The way he said it unsettled her. Like he had been waiting, not just hoping.

Luna forced a small laugh. “You couldn’t have known that.”

Rick’s expression hardened for a flicker of a second before softening again. “Family always comes home,” he murmured.

That night, Luna unpacked the last of her things, arranging her books on the desk and placing her father’s watch in the drawer. She told herself she was safe, that Rick’s intensity was nothing more than awkwardness after years apart.

But as she slipped into bed, something caught her attention.

The curtains. She was sure she had drawn them shut earlier, yet now they hung slightly open, just enough to expose the window.

Her heart pounded. She crossed the room, pulling them closed again, hands trembling. She told herself it was nothing—maybe she’d forgotten. Maybe the wind had shifted them.

Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes pressed against the glass. Watching.

And when she returned to bed, pulling the blanket tightly around herself, she thought she heard it again—footsteps in the hallway.

Slow. Deliberate.

Stopping right outside her door.

The morning sun was pale, barely cutting through the mist that clung to the Hayes estate. Luna decided to walk outside, hoping fresh air might calm the unease that had wrapped itself around her since her first night here.

The garden was overgrown but strangely beautiful. Roses climbed the stone walls, their petals heavy with dew. Ivy twisted along the fence, and wildflowers broke through the cracks in the cobblestones. Luna knelt to touch a rose, careful of the thorns, remembering how her mother once said roses were “beautiful things that hurt when held too tightly.”

“Careful,” a voice said behind her.

Luna turned sharply. Rick stood only a few feet away, hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on her.

“You’ll cut yourself,” he said.

“I’ll be fine,” Luna answered softly, straightening. “It’s just a rose.”

Rick’s eyes lingered on the red bloom, then on her. “Roses bleed when mishandled. People do too.”

Luna tried to laugh it off, though her stomach knotted. “That’s… a grim way of putting it.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I don’t like seeing you hurt.”

For a moment, the words sounded gentle. But there was an edge there—something sharp beneath the softness.

Later that day, Marjorie insisted Luna accompany her to the market. Luna agreed, eager for any reason to leave the suffocating house. She enjoyed the chatter of townsfolk, the bustle of life. But it didn’t last.

Everywhere she went, she felt it. That same weight pressing between her shoulder blades. She turned once, certain she’d catch someone staring, but the street was busy, ordinary. Still, she couldn’t shake it.

When they returned home, Rick was waiting by the door. His jaw tightened as he looked at the bags Marjorie carried.

“You were gone for a while,” he said.

“Markets always take time,” Marjorie replied cheerfully, brushing past him.

Rick’s eyes moved to Luna, pinning her. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

Luna hesitated. “Yes. It was nice to… get some air.”

His stare sharpened, though he said nothing. Only when Marjorie called him to help with the groceries did he look away.

That evening, Luna sat at her desk, flipping through one of her books. But her mind wandered. She thought of her parents, of the crash, of how different life had become. She whispered into the silence, as if speaking to them: I’ll be okay. I’ll make this work.

A knock startled her. She looked up to see Rick leaning against her doorway, his hand resting on the frame.

“You didn’t answer when I called,” he said.

“Sorry,” Luna murmured, setting the book aside. “I was… lost in thought.”

Rick’s gaze moved over her desk, lingering on her father’s watch. Slowly, he stepped inside. “You shouldn’t keep that here. It’s fragile. Someone could take it.”

“No one’s going to take it,” Luna said firmly.

His eyes darkened, but he said nothing. Instead, he reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. The gesture should have been tender, but it felt too heavy, too deliberate.

“You belong here now,” Rick said quietly. “With us. With me.”

Luna’s breath caught. She forced a shaky smile. “Of course… with family.”

Rick’s lips curved, but there was no warmth in the smile. Only possession.

When he finally left, closing the door softly behind him, Luna sagged against her chair, trembling.

And that night, when she tried to sleep, she dreamed of roses—crushed in fists, dripping red.