Chapter 5: Elunara

I drive pass a barbershop with a spinning red-and-white pole, and a thrift store with mannequins posed and draped in vintage fashion.

Then I see it—a stone building with ivy curling up its sides. The sign out front reads: Hadley Township Public Library. The windows are dark, but the sign on the door is flipped to OPEN.

I park half a block away and lock the car out of habit. Rex sits in the passenger seat, wilted but defiant.

The bell above the door chimes as I step inside. The scent of old paper and lemon polish hits me like a wave. There’s something comforting in it.

It’s quiet. Not silent, but close. Dust motes float in shafts of light slanting through stained-glass windows at the back. Rows of books stretch out like narrow hallways, dim and waiting.

Behind a wide oak desk, a woman looks up. She’s maybe in her sixties, hair pulled into a bun so tight it gives me a headache just looking at it. She wears a buttoned cardigan the color of dusty rose and has the kind of sharp eyes that could slice through lies like hot wire through butter.

“Good afternoon,” she says politely.

“Hi.” I step closer. “I was wondering if you have any historical records of…um…on Hucow Hollow?” I finish.

Something in her changes. It’s small, but I catch it. The slight pause in her breath. The way her fingers still on the desk. Her eyes narrow—not in suspicion, but surprise.

“Hucow Hollow?” she repeats, like the words don’t fit in her mouth. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar.”

I blink. “Oh. I inherited some land out there. I just wanted to know more about it, if there were records or—”

She cuts me off with a thin smile. “There’s nothing but rock and dirt out that way. No settlements. No history worth documenting.”

I frown, pulling out the map that was sent to me. “But my map—”

“Maps are often wrong,” she says crisply. “Especially old ones.” Her eyes lower to the paper in my hands before she types on the ancient desktop in front of her, suddenly pretending to be very busy.

“I just thought there might be something archived,” I press. “An old town registry or—”

“There is no such place,” she says firmly. “Now, if you’re interested in the real history of Hadley Township, I suggest starting with our founding in 1827. We have a lovely collection on early settlers and mill workers.”

My fingers twitch around the edge of the counter. Her face is polite, professional. But her tone is final.

I murmur a thank you and back away. She doesn’t look up again.

Outside, the air is warmer than it was earlier. The clouds are heavy and low, pregnant with unshed rain. I trudge back to my car, unsettled.

I slide into the driver’s seat and glance in the rearview mirror, pausing for a breath before I start the car.

Movement catches my eye.

The library door swings open. The librarian steps out, her cardigan pulled tight against her chest. She doesn’t see me watching. Her attention is on someone else.

An old man sits hunched on a bench across the street. He doesn’t move until she speaks to him.

Then she points. Right at me.

The man follows her gaze. His face is unreadable. Weathered. Still.

But I feel it—that cold ripple of being seen. Not watched. Tracked.

I slam the car into gear and peel away from the curb.

* * *

The road west narrows quickly, two lanes fading into one. Pavement crumbles into gravel, and eventually, gravel gives way to hard-packed dirt. Trees line the road and lean in as if they are watching over the land.

There’s no cell out here. Just the occasional crackle of the radio as I try—and fail—to find a station to listen to.

The map I brought rests on the passenger seat, weighted by Rex. His leaves tremble with each bump in the road.

I think its nerves match mine.

It feels like I drive in silence for a long time.

Then I see it.

A turn in the road that isn’t on the map the attendant gave me, but is on the drawn one. The thought that maybe this road was added after the attendant’s map was printed hits me. That has to be it.

This new path branches off the main road like a limb, thin and winding. The sign beside it is rusted and blank, its letters worn smooth by time.

According to my map, this is the path.

Mist curls at the edge of the trees, creeping across the ground like fingers.

I pull over and kill the engine.

The silence is deafening here. Even the birds are quiet. There’s no wind, no rustling leaves. Just a low, creeping mist—rolling like breath over the forest floor.

I grip the steering wheel.

You can still turn back, a voice in my head whispers. Get a motel. Find a new job.

But I know the truth. There’s nothing to go back to.

The world has gone on without me. My name is no longer written anywhere but on overdue bills and an eviction notice.

Whatever waits in that mist—whatever’s pulling me forward—it’s mine now.

I stuff my map and sandwich in my backpack before shoving a few chips in my mouth. Then, I reach over and cradle Rex in one arm and sling my backpack over the other. My boots crunch against the gravel as I step out. The keys jingle softly in my pocket like tiny bells.

The mist is thicker up close.

It swirls in slow motion, heavy and cool. It clings to my skin, my breath, my thoughts. I can’t see the path ahead. I can barely see the trees on either side.

And then I hear it.

A voice.

No, not a voice—voices. Whispering softly and just out of reach. Too close and too far away all at once.

Elunara…

That’s my name, but no one has called me that—ever. I go by Elle.

The hairs on the back of my neck rise. My pulse thuds in my ears.

Come home…

Home has always been where I fell asleep at night. It’s never been a visceral place in my heart, a belonging deeply ingrained in my soul.

I should be terrified.

Instead, I feel like I’ve been walking in circles my whole life and finally found the path I’m meant to follow.

I adjust my grip on Rex and take a step forward.

The mist parts just enough to let me pass, then swells and closes behind me.

I press forward with my free hand out so I don’t walk face first into a tree and keep my eyes on the ground. I don’t know where this road leads, or what I’ll find at the end.

But I know this:

There’s no turning back now.