Chapter 6- Thornebrook Café

I don’t sleep much.

Again.

The pattern’s become so familiar I could set a clock by it. Three hours of restless tossing, maybe four if I’m lucky, before my eyes snap open like someone’s flipped a switch. Tonight is no different. The darkness presses against my eyelids until I give up pretending sleep will come, until I surrender to the inevitable pull of wakefulness that’s been haunting me since I arrived in this godforsaken town.

When I do manage to drift off, it’s the same dream over and over—fog swallowing trees like hungry mouths, golden eyes blinking through darkness that feels alive and watching, and that pull in my chest like a thread winding tighter and tighter. The sensation is so real I wake with my hand pressed to my sternum, fingers splayed over skin that feels hot to the touch, searching for the source of an ache that shouldn’t exist.

The dream always ends the same way. I’m running through woods that stretch endlessly in every direction, branches catching at my clothes and hair, my breath coming in sharp gasps that taste of pine and something wilder. Something calls to me from the shadows—not a voice exactly, but a feeling. A recognition so deep it bypasses my conscious mind and sinks straight into my bones. And just as I’m about to see what waits in the darkness, just as those golden eyes grow bright enough to illuminate the face they belong to, I wake.

When I finally wake for real tonight, the candle beside my bed has long since gone out. The wick sits cold and black in a pool of hardened wax, and I realize with a start that I don’t remember lighting it in the first place. My mouth is dry, cotton-thick with the aftertaste of dreams I can’t quite shake. My head aches with the dull throb that comes from too little sleep and too much thinking.

I don’t check the mirror again. I don’t need to.

I know what I saw yesterday—the way my reflection seemed to shimmer at the edges, like I was looking at myself through water. The way my eyes looked brighter, more aware. The way my teeth seemed sharper when I ran my tongue across them.

And I know what Elsie said.

Alpha.

The word rolls around my brain like it belongs to another language, foreign and familiar all at once. It sits heavy in my thoughts, weighted with implications I don’t understand and don’t want to accept. I still don’t understand what the hell it’s supposed to mean, not really. She won’t explain anything beyond creepy one-liners and burned herbs that make my eyes water and my skin crawl with awareness I can’t name.

Every time I ask for answers, she gives me riddles. Every time I demand explanations, she burns another bundle of sage and mutters about bloodlines and destinies like she’s reading from some ancient script I’m not allowed to see. The smoke clings to everything—my clothes, my hair, the inside of my throat—until I feel like I’m choking on secrets.

And me?

I feel like I’m unraveling.

Thread by thread, piece by piece, everything I thought I knew about myself is coming apart. My reflection doesn’t look right. My dreams are too vivid, too real. My body reacts to things that shouldn’t affect me—the sound of wind through trees sets my pulse racing, the scent of rain on earth makes me restless in ways I can’t explain, and sometimes, late at night when the house is quiet, I swear I can hear things moving in the woods that sound too big to be deer.

There’s only so much whispering and blood and rules-before-breakfast a girl can take before she needs something normal.

Something that doesn’t involve cryptic warnings or burning herbs or the feeling that every shadow in this house is watching me with interest that feels far too personal. Something that doesn’t make me question whether I’m losing my mind or finally seeing clearly for the first time in my life.

So I get dressed.

The routine is automatic, muscle memory taking over when my brain feels too scattered to make decisions. Black jeans, the ones that fit like a second skin and don’t show dirt or damage. Old combat boots that have carried me through more cities than I can count, their leather scuffed and broken in just right. A hoodie two sizes too big that smells like the closet back home—back in the apartment that used to be home.

The hoodie still carries traces of my old life. The ghost of normalcy that feels like a lifetime ago instead of just a few weeks.

I pull my hair into a knot at the back of my neck, not bothering with a mirror. My hands know the motions, gathering the dark strands and twisting them up without thought. A few pieces escape to frame my face, but I don’t care enough to fix them. I throw on a jacket—black denim, lined with fleece that’s seen better days—and stuff my hands in the pockets out of habit.

My phone’s dead now—completely. The screen stays black no matter how long I hold the power button, no matter how many different chargers I try. It died three days ago and won’t hold a charge, like something in this place is actively hostile to technology. I stuff it in my pocket anyway, out of habit more than hope. The weight of it feels familiar, comforting, even if it’s nothing more than an expensive paperweight now.

Elsie’s not downstairs when I leave. Good.

Her absence is a relief that makes me feel guilty even as I savor it. I love her, or I’m trying to, but right now I can’t handle another lecture about embracing my nature or accepting my birthright or whatever other mystical nonsense she wants to pile on my shoulders. I can’t handle sage smoke in my face or the way her eyes seem to see straight through me to something I’m not ready to acknowledge exists.

I don’t want another conversation about blood and legacy and responsibility I never asked for.

I want—

Noise. People. Coffee.

Normal things that normal people do on normal mornings. Conversation that doesn’t require decoding. The simple pleasure of being anonymous in a crowd, even if that crowd is just the handful of people brave enough to venture out in Thornebrook before noon.

Even if the people in this town look at me like I crawled out of a crypt.

The walk into town takes twenty minutes, and every step feels like I’m walking deeper into something I don’t understand. The fog is thinner today, but it still clings to the ground in patches, curling around my ankles like curious fingers. The air is sharp with the promise of rain, damp and quiet like it’s holding a secret under its breath. Every inhale tastes of pine and earth and something wilder that makes my pulse quicken without reason.

The houses are few and far between—old, cracked, slumped slightly like they’re tired of standing. They look like they’ve been here forever, like they grew out of the ground instead of being built by human hands. Paint peels from shutters that hang askew.

Trees crowd the edges of every yard, pressing close to windows and doors like they’re trying to reclaim the space humans carved out of the forest. Crows follow me at a distance, like they’ve been watching for days.

The road stretches ahead of me, cracked asphalt bordered by ditches full of tall grass that whispers secrets to the wind. No cars pass. No other pedestrians brave the morning chill. It’s just me and the crows and the feeling that every step takes me further from the person I used to be.

By the time I reach the outskirts of downtown, my nerves are stretched thin as wire.

Thornebrook’s “downtown” is… small.

Quaint, someone might say if they were being generous. Rustic. Charming in that way that small towns try to be when they’re hoping tourists might stop long enough to spend money. But underneath the attempted charm, there’s something else. Something that makes the back of my neck prickle with awareness.

One street forms the heart of it all. Main Street, according to the faded sign, though it’s barely wide enough for two cars to pass each other comfortably.

One grocery store squats at the far end like a gray toad, its neon sign flickering intermittently. PETE’S MARKET, it reads, though half the letters are dark and the apostrophe blinks on and off with a rhythm that’s almost hypnotic.

A bookstore sits across from it, its hand-painted sign so faded I can’t read the name. The windows are dusty, filled with towers of books that look like they haven’t been disturbed in decades. A cat sleeps in the front window, orange and fat, and it watches me pass with eyes that seem too knowing.

And between them—a diner-slash-café, the kind with a striped awning and chipped brick that speaks of better days and simpler times. The awning is red and white, though the white has gone gray with age and weather.

A wooden sign hangs above the door, carved with careful letters that read:

PENNY’S

The wood is weathered but well-maintained, and someone has painted little flowers along the border in colors that are still bright despite the elements. It’s the kind of place that should feel welcoming, homey, safe.

It doesn’t.

Something about it sets my teeth on edge, though I can’t put my finger on what. Maybe it’s the way the windows reflect the morning light like eyes. Maybe it’s the way the door seems to watch me as I approach. Maybe it’s just that everything in this town feels like it’s waiting for something to happen. Okay. Cute enough.

I square my stance and push the door open.

A small bell chimes overhead, the sound bright and cheerful and completely at odds with the tension that immediately floods the space.

Inside, it’s warmer than I expect. Not cozy exactly, but lived-in. The kind of warmth that comes from bodies and conversation and the steady heat of a grill that’s been running since before dawn.

Five booths line the opposite wall, their vinyl seats patched with duct tape and their tables scarred with initials and coffee rings. The floor is black and white checkerboard tile.

A chalkboard menu hangs behind the counter, its offerings written in careful script that lists the usual suspects: eggs, bacon, pancakes, coffee strong enough to wake the dead. The prices are reasonable, the handwriting neat, and everything about it screams small-town normal.

The smell of coffee and something sugary clings to the air—cinnamon rolls, maybe, or fresh donuts. It should make my mouth water. Instead, it makes my stomach twist with nerves that have nothing to do with hunger.

People turn to look the moment I step inside.

Of course they do.

Three customers at a corner table—two men in flannel and a woman with gray hair pulled back in a bun—go quiet mid-conversation. Their coffee cups pause halfway to their lips, steam rising between us like a barrier. They don’t even try to be subtle about staring.

A man in coveralls stands from the counter without touching his plate, leaving his eggs to grow cold as he throws a five-dollar bill down and heads for the door. He doesn’t look at me directly, but I can feel his awareness like a physical touch. He moves carefully, deliberately, like he’s trying not to trigger something unpredictable.

A woman near the window lifts her purse from the floor beside her chair and doesn’t finish her coffee. She’s younger than the others, maybe thirty, with the kind of nervous energy that comes from working too many double shifts and drinking too much caffeine. Her hands shake slightly as she fumbles for her wallet, and she keeps glancing at me like she’s waiting for me to do something threatening.

Within thirty seconds, I’m alone except for the woman behind the counter—and a guy I didn’t notice at first, sitting near the far booth with a book half-open in one hand.

The exodus is so smooth it’s almost choreographed. Like they’ve done this before. Like they know something I don’t and they’re not taking any chances.