Chapter Text
The dish soap smelled like fake lemons and surrender.
Rebecca’s hands were red at the knuckles—not from the water alone, though the water didn’t help, cycling from hot to lukewarm to cold because the heater had opinions and the house had limits.
Her skin stung where it had cracked in thin lines, the kind you didn’t notice until you dragged a sponge over them and suddenly felt every choice you’d made in the last year.
She kept scrubbing anyway.
A plate. Rinse.
Another plate. Rinse.
A fork.
A bowl.
Rinse, stack, slide into the drying rack with care so the chipped ceramic didn’t clack too loudly.
This house amplified everything when it wanted to. It could take the smallest sound and make it feel like you were being judged for existing.
The oven timer beeped softly.
Rebecca wiped her hands automatically and opened the oven. Heat rolled over her face. The chicken skin had browned, edges crisp. A tray of potatoes sat beside it, blistered and golden. She slid the rack out, checked it with a fork, then pushed it back in. Not done yet. Ten more minutes.
She reset the timer and closed the oven door carefully before returning back to the sink.
Outside the kitchen window, La Push was nothing but rain and dark. Pine shadows and wet sand. The porch light blurred into a halo on the glass, and when Rebecca’s eyes drifted up she caught her own reflection on the window—half-lit, hair pulled back, eyes too bright.
Tired eyes.
Wild eyes.
The kind of eyes that could easily make people decide you were trouble before you’d even opened your mouth.
She blinked and looked back down at the sink.
Upstairs, the zipper rasped again.
Rachel.
That sound had been going on for an hour—zip, pause, footsteps, the soft thump of folded clothes landing in a suitcase—like a metronome marking the end of one life and the beginning of another.
Rebecca kept telling herself she was fine with it, that she’d been ready for this, that she’d been the one pushing Rachel toward the door like a hand on her back.
She had been.
She still was.
But every time the zipper moved, something in her chest tightened like a knot pulled one loop smaller.
A chair creaked in the living room. Billy shifting in his wheelchair. The TV murmured—low volume, some late-night channel where weather report kept promising more storms, like anyone in La Push needed the warning. Accompanied by the slow, patient whir of the old heater trying its best in the background.
There was another sound: Jacob’s heavier step, a cupboard door, a muttered complaint that carried down the hall like he expected the house to cater to him. He’d come in earlier soaked from the rain, dumped his shoes by the door, and announced he was starving like hunger was a personal insult. He had that teenager entitlement that wasn’t cruelty, exactly—just the assumption that life would eventually make room for him.
Rebecca tightened her grip on the sponge until her fingers ached.
She wasn’t angry at Jacob for being Jacob. She was angry at what Jacob got to be by default.
Lost. Restless. Loud.
Privileged.
Rebecca had learned early that girls like her didn’t get to be lost.
Not here. Not in this house. Not with a father in a chair and a mother in the ground.
Ever since Mom died, everything had become about what was needed.
Not what was wanted.
Needed was the rent, the groceries, the gas in the truck, the lights that buzzed and threatened to die but still had to be paid for.
Needed was Jacob’s lunches, Rachel’s application fees, Billy’s pride held carefully like a glass that could shatter if you looked at it wrong.
Needed was Rebecca.
She rinsed the plate, stacked it, and reached for another without looking.
The sink was a small world, and if she kept her hands in it, if she kept her mind in it, she could pretend the rest of her life wasn’t closing in like a storm.
But her mind wandered anyway, because her mind had long learned to anticipate pain and trouble before it arrived.
Tomorrow, Rachel—her own twin—would finally leave.
Like they always dreamt of.
Rachel would walk onto a campus where nobody knew who her father was, where there would be no expectations and no knowing smiles. Where nobody watched her to see if she was “acting right.” Where she could be smart without being called “lucky,” and ambitious without being called “too much.” Where she would have the freedom of disappearing into a crowd instead of being known wherever she goes.
Rachel had a scholarship. Letters. A future with a name.
Rebecca had… La Push.
And La Push had her.
Small place. Small opportunities. The same handful of jobs that kept people alive but never let them grow: the store, the diner, seasonal work that dried up when the tourists did. No real ladder. No “next.”
Just the same tired cycle, over and over, until you woke up one day and realized you’d become the auntie who looked at teenagers with that sad knowing smile and said, “Enjoy it while you can.”
Rebecca didn’t want to become that.
She didn’t want to become anything the reservation expected her to be.
She’d seen the script a thousand times. It was written in side-eyes and gentle advice and community “concern” that always came dressed as love.
Be considerate. Help your dad. Keep your family fed. Don’t make things harder. Don’t embarrass the family. Don’t be selfish. Don’t run around. Don’t get ideas. You’ll marry in your own time. Then you’ll have your own family to take care of. Then you’ll repeat the whole thing, because that’s what women did here—carry, and carry, and carry, until the support hollowed them out.
Rebecca’s throat tightened.
She scrubbed harder.
Somewhere upstairs, Rachel’s footsteps paused. A drawer slid open. A soft exhale—Rachel trying not to cry, Rebecca could hear it even from here. Rachel always cried quietly. She’d long learned that crying out loud made Billy tense and Jacob uncomfortable and the whole house tilt.
Rebecca’s chest squeezed.
Pride hit her first, bright and painful.
Rachel was leaving. Rachel was actually leaving.
Rebecca had done that. A part of her rejoiced in her twin’s success like part of her own, don’t get her wrong—Rachel was brilliant, Rachel worked her ass off—but Rebecca had held the world steady enough for Rachel to aim at the door.
Rebecca had been the one who made sure there were dinners, made sure the lights stayed on, made sure the internet bill got paid, made sure family troubles got taken care of so Rachel could focus on studies and exams and contests and applications. She’d taken extra shifts and smiled at customers who treated her like dirt. She’d nodded while people asked if she was “going anywhere” after high school in the tone that meant they already knew the answer.
She’d said, every time, “We’ll see.”
She’d meant: I refuse to die here.
But the pride didn’t exist alone. It never did.
Under it was wistfulness, thick as fog. Nostalgia that bit with its sharp-edged teeth.
The memory of two girls with matching braids and sand on their feet, their mother’s hands warm and firm as she worked the knots out. Rachel and Rebecca racing on the beach with Jacob yelling and their mother laughing once upon a time, back at a time where laughter was still as easy as breathing and the future was still bright and worry-free. Billy still walking then, still loud, still whole. The house still smelling like her mother’s shampoo.
Then the memory tipped into grief so sudden it made Rebecca’s breath hitch.
Ever since Mom died.
Those four words were a trap door.
Mom died, and dad lost his legs, and the world rearranged itself around loss.
Billy didn’t just lose his legs. He lost his ease. He lost the part of him that trusted the future. For a while he wallowed in it—silently breaking in dark corners of the room, in the quiet stubborn way of a man who refused to be helped because help meant admitting he needed it.
The community showed up in the beginning. Food. Rides. Offers. Warm hands and pity in their eyes.
Billy took it for a little while, jaw clenched so hard it looked like it physically hurt him to accept their kindness.
Then his pride as the Chief rose up like a wall.
We’re fine. He said.
We can take care of ourselves. He said.
We don’t need charity. He said.
He said it like he was doing them a favor.
He said it like it didn’t mean Rebecca had to pick up everything that dropped.
Rebecca remembered the first time she realized nobody was going to come save them.
She’d been standing at the sink then too, younger, shoulders thinner, hands still untouched by work. Rachel was upstairs doing homework, Jacob was outside, and Billy sat in the living room staring at nothing. The house had been silent in that heavy way, and Rebecca had looked at the dishes, felt the hunger gnawing in her stomach, and thought to herself, If I don’t do this, it won’t get done.
That was the beginning.
Not the dishes.
The realization.
That she was the only one she could count on.
She outgrew her childhood that day, shedding her innocence and weakness and dependencies like the empty husk of who Rebecca Black once was.
Now, years later, she was still here, still doing it, except the dishes weren’t the point anymore. The point was that she got them surviving across the finish line and tomorrow Rachel would be able to leave with her head held high and pride intact, with a bright future ahead of her that no one can fault her for.
Rachel leaving isn’t just an upcoming absence.
It was a spotlight of her hard-won trophy.
The living proof that girls with broken families and limited opportunities like her can be more than who they are. That the tragic cycle is not pre-determined.
…it would also mean that she’d become the next spotlight of the community.
Everyone would look at Rebecca after.
People in the community, people at the store, even extended relatives who didn’t help but loved to comment.
Now it’s your turn. Now you’ll settle down. Now you’ll take care of your dad and brother. As the responsible eldest daughter in the family.
The eldest status was a curse. Sometimes it felt like a brand.
Rebecca’s stomach twisted.
She hated the phrase responsible.
Responsible sounded like virtue. Like she should be grateful. Like responsibility was an honor instead of a cage.
She reached into the sink for another bowl and realized, suddenly, that she was shaking.
Not a lot. Just a fine tremor in her fingers that she could have blamed on cold water if she wanted to lie to herself.
She didn’t.
Rebecca let herself feel it for a second, bracing against the counter with her head bowed, letting her hair fall around her like a curtain, concealing her temporary weariness from the rest of the world.
Letting herself to just breathe through the swelling tangled web of bitterness and pain and envy.
And kept breathing in spite of it. Inhaling slowly despite how her throat burned.
She couldn’t help but think—
…She had good grades too—better than people expected when they saw her last name and her address and the way she sometimes came to school with tired eyes. Better than most of her classmates. Certainly better than Jacob’s.
She’d stayed up late doing homework after shifts. She’d done assignments at the kitchen table while Billy watched TV and Jacob complained about noise. She’d taken tests with her body buzzing from lack of sleep.
She had made every minute count when Rebecca’s life had been nothing but a series of absences—absences from class because Billy had a bad day and needed help; absences because Jacob forgot something and someone had to pick it up; absences because the diner called and asked if she could cover a shift and the answer was always yes because the electric bill didn’t care about algebra.
She’d missed school for work, for caregiving, for emergencies she couldn’t explain to teachers without seeing pity creep into their faces—and she’d still clawed her GPA into something respectable because she understood how society worked.
Society liked paper proof.
Rebecca had chased paper proof as hard as she could. Refusing to give up. Refusing to be written off.
Acceptance letters of hers had come too. Several in fact. A thin stack in a folder upstairs, under bills and old pay stubs. She kept them like one keeps a picture of doors that once almost opened. Letters from schools that looked at her grades and test scores and saw potential. Schools that said: We’d love to have you.
But “love to have you” didn’t pay tuition.
The scholarships she’d gotten were small, polite, the kind that looked hopeful until you did the math. Not enough to leave. Not enough to keep the lights on here if she went. Not enough to cover the invisible costs: books, transport, dorm deposits, the way a poor kid bleeds money just trying to start.
And their family couldn’t support two college students.
It wasn’t a moral statement. It wasn’t a lack of ambition. It was arithmetic.
If Rebecca left for school, her income went with her. The labor she did went with her. The silent machinery that kept the house running would stop. Billy would refuse community charity because pride was the one thing he still treated like a crown. Jacob would drift. Bills would pile. The house would become a slow disaster.
So the decision had been made—quietly, brutally, long before the night of announcement.
Rachel would go.
Rebecca would stay.
Rebecca would make sure the house didn’t collapse.
She’d said it like a choice. She’d even meant it like a choice at the time. Because she loved Rachel. Because she wanted at least one of them to get out clean.
A simple, logical choice that made everyone sigh in relief despite feeling bad for her.
But tonight, with Rachel’s zipper singing upstairs and the oven light glowing on chicken skin, Rebecca felt the edges of that choice scrape her raw.
Because staying didn’t feel like a choice anymore.
It felt like a sentence.
The raw untamed mix of unspoken emotions made it hard to breathe at the moment, the pride, grief, jealousy she would never admit out loud, the kind that tasted like metal. Because Rachel got to leave cleanly. Rachel got to leave because the world rewarded her kind of excellence—grades, essays, polite ambition. Rebecca’s excellence was invisible: keeping a broken household upright.
Rebecca had to crawl.
Rebecca had to claw.
Rebecca had to become ruthless, because nobody handed girls like her a door unless she pried it open herself.
She stared at the suds swirling down the drain.
If she didn’t escape… she could already see that future before her with cruel clarity.
She’d graduate. She’d keep working her part-times. Maybe she’d pick up another one. She’d become the dependable employee that managers loved because she never called out, because she couldn’t afford to. She’d move from cashier to shift lead if she was lucky, which sounded like progress until you realized it just meant more responsibility for fifty cents extra an hour.
She’d keep doing groceries. Keep cleaning. Keep making sure Billy took his meds even when he snapped at her for hovering. Keep dragging Jacob toward adulthood by the collar while everyone excused his drift because he was “young” and “a boy” and “figuring it out.”
Then someone would start asking when she was going to marry.
It wouldn’t even be mean. That was the part that made it worse.
It would be said like a natural next step of life. Like breathing. Like gravity.
Life would go on as it always does and she would wake up in ten years still washing dishes while Rachel visited with a new life and Jacob complained about work and Billy pretended everything was fine. She’d be praised for her sacrifice, like sacrifice was a personality trait. Like she was born to spend her life in servitude.
Rebecca’s jaw tightened until her teeth hurt from clenching too hard.
Her gaze flicked to the window again. Her reflection looked back, eyes too bright, mouth too hard.
She didn’t want to marry someone here. She didn’t want to build another family on this same sinking foundation. She didn’t want to spend the rest of her life taking care of people who loved her in ways that demanded she shrink.
That was her personal hell: not one big dramatic tragedy, but the slow suffocation of “this is just how it is.”
No.
Just–no.
She will get out—one way or another.
Rebecca’s throat burned.
She set the sponge down. Turned off the faucet. Shut off the oven.
The sudden quiet made the kitchen feel louder, in a way that made her ears ring.
In the living room, Jacob laughed at something on the TV. Billy made a quiet sound of disapproval. Then Jacob said, too loud, “Come on,” and Billy replied, still calm, “Lower your voice.”
Rebecca listened to the domestic normalcy like it was a threat.
Because it meant the house thought it was going to keep her here indefinitely.
Because it meant tomorrow, when Rachel was gone, this sound would continue and Rebecca would be expected to keep being the invisible hand that made everything possible.
She dried her hands slowly, methodically. Folded the towel. Hung it.
Her mind slipped to the thing she wasn’t allowing herself to say out loud tonight.
Her own escape plan.
Sometimes…when college was off the table and realism had teeth, a ring was still a way out.
Familiar guilt welled up just from the thought.
She did feel guilt, yes—sharp and persistent, like a thorn under the nail.
Billy needed help. Jacob needed guidance. The house needed upkeep. The bills didn’t care about dreams.
And Rebecca was the one holding the whole structure up.
If she left, things would shift. Things would crack. The family would have to adjust, and adjustment hurt.
She imagined Billy’s face when he realized she’d gone. The way his pride would flare—not just anger, but something wounded. The way he might blame himself and then refuse to speak of it because guilt was more cutting than grief.
She imagined Jacob’s confusion turning into anger turning into that hollow look he got when he didn’t know what to do with emotion.
She imagined the community’s whispers: How could she? After everything. Poor Billy. Poor Jacob. Poor Rachel.
She could taste the judgement already.
Questions she asked herself a million times.
How could she do that to her family?
How could she leave them?
After everything.
The guilt was real. It clawed at her ribs.
But it wasn’t stronger than the other truth, the one she didn’t say out loud because saying it would make everything too sharp—
If she stayed, she would die here in slow motion.
Not physically. Something worse.
She would become a function. A role. A ghost with no voice. Nothing more than a nameless maid that existed just to keep the house clean.
Guilt twisted in her stomach… but something else rose beside it at the thought, hard as stone.
Resolve.
A streak of natural defiance and ruthlessness rearing its ugly head from the long and noble bloodline of Black.
It was not because she didn’t love them.
Because she did.
Because love was exactly why she’d stayed this long.
But love had turned into a chain slowly suffocating her to death, and she was done being dragged.
She didn’t want to be a martyr. She didn’t want to be praised for sacrifice. She didn’t want to be good.
Rebecca wanted to be free.
She breathed in through her nose, slow.
Let the guilt sit there, tight in her chest.
Let the pain anchor her in the moment.
And chose, again, to move anyway.
Upstairs, the zipper stopped.
A beat of silence.
Then the suitcase wheels rattled—slow at first, then steadier as Rachel dragged it toward the stairs.
Rebecca’s chest clenched.
This was the moment her body had been anticipating for hours, bracing for it like a hit.
Rachel’s footsteps came down, careful on each step so she didn’t catch the wheel. Rebecca could picture her without looking: one hand on the suitcase handle, the other steadying it, shoulders tense. Rachel always tried to be quiet when it mattered.
The suitcase thumped lightly as Rachel reached the bottom step.
Rebecca turned.
Rachel stood in the hallway entrance to the kitchen, suitcase upright beside her, duffel strap cutting across her shoulder. Black hair, long and braided down her back in a neat rope. Light russet skin warmed by the kitchen bulb, tan in that way that held onto summer even in the rain. Her dark brown eyes that always looked deeper in dim light were wet but determined. Long lashes, damp at the tips like she’d blinked hard too many times. Her mouth was set like she was holding herself together by force of will.
She looked—suddenly, painfully—like someone on the edge of a life.
A mirror image with their same shape of face, same bones, same tilt of lips…of someone who she could have been but would never become.
For a second, Rebecca couldn’t speak.
The emotions hit her all at once: pride so fierce it almost hurt, nostalgia like a punch to the gut, grief for the childhood they’d lost, jealousy that she swallowed because it wasn’t Rachel’s fault, and love—raw, protective, feral love—because Rachel was her twin and her responsibility and her heart all in one.
Rachel’s voice came soft. “I’m packed.”
Rebecca swallowed hard. Her throat burned.
“Okay,” Rebecca managed.
Rachel’s eyes flicked over the kitchen—clean counters, dishes drying, Rebecca’s hands still damp from washing. Rachel’s expression softened in a way that made Rebecca want to look away.
Rachel didn’t step closer yet. She just stood there, suitcase handle in hand, as if she was waiting for Rebecca to say something that made this feel real, to give her instructions on what to do next as they always functioned.
Rebecca forced her lungs to work.
She walked over, took the duffel from Rachel’s shoulder without asking, and set it down by the door. A simple act, automatic, but her fingers lingered on the strap for half a second longer than necessary.
Rachel’s eyes shimmered.
Rebecca kept her face steady. She leaned down and adjusted the suitcase handle, making sure it locked into place.
It gave her something to do besides fall apart.
In the living room, Billy’s chair creaked again, and Jacob’s voice drifted—“Where are you going?”—followed by Billy’s quieter answer.
Rebecca heard it all like background noise, like the house trying to reclaim the moment.
She refused.
Rebecca straightened and met Rachel’s gaze.
Her throat tightened so hard she had to force air around it.
“Food’s in the oven,” Rebecca said instead, because caregiving was the natural language that can be spoken without risk. “It’ll stay warm. Tell Dad and Jacob not to burn the house down when we’re gone for the night when you say your goodbyes.”
Rachel’s mouth trembled, then she nodded, blinking fast. “Okay.”
Rebecca swallowed. The words she wanted to say pressed behind her teeth—I’m proud of you. Don’t come back if you don’t have to. Don’t let this place pull you under. I love you. I hate that I’m staying. I hate that I’m planning to leave too.
She bit her tongue and reminded herself that they still have tonight.
That this is not yet the end of their road together.
There’s still time.
Time that is slipping by every second like sand through fist.
But Rachel was still standing there, looking at her with those expectant eyes—and what rolled off her tongue next was steadier, darker, and more honest than she expected.
“This is the last night,” Rebecca said, voice low, almost rough. “Before you’re gone and you get to start your new life. Say your farewells, give your best wishes to dad and Jacob. ”
Rachel’s eyes shone. She didn’t look away.
Rebecca continued, because once she started, stopping felt like choking. “And after tonight, I need you to remember something. When you’re on campus and you’re busy and your world gets bigger—don’t come back because you feel guilty about me.”
Rachel’s breath hitched. “Bec—”
Rebecca held up a hand, cutting her off. Calm and steadfast to a degree that even surprised herself. “Don’t, Ray. I made my choice. I backed you because at least one of us was going to get out the right way. That’s done now.”
“We’ll go soon,” she continued her instruction, firm and naturally commanding as always, “Go say goodbye”.
Rachel nodded once, lips trembling. “Yeah. Okay.”
She turned back to the living room obediently and soft exchanges soon drifted out signaling their tearful goodbye.
Rebecca rested her head against the door frame with a sigh as she waited.
Soon, she emerged with red-trimmed eyes.
Rebecca picked up Rachel’s duffel from the ground without asking. Rachel grabbed her suitcase handle. They headed for the door without another word.
At the threshold, Rachel looked back—one last glance at Billy in his chair and Jacob on the couch pretending he wasn’t watching.
“I’ll call,” Rachel said again.
Billy’s voice came rough. “You better.”
Jacob muttered, uncharacteristically soft and sincere, “Don’t forget us. Be safe out there.”
Rachel’s eyes shone with a wet laugh. “I couldn’t even if I tried to. Take care, Jake.”
Rebecca opened the door and the rain slapped them cold and loud.
They moved quickly to the truck, loaded the suitcase, got in as fast as they could.
The truck started with a reluctant cough.
Rachel buckled in and exhaled, fogging the window.
Rebecca drove.
For a long while, they said nothing. The wipers made a steady rhythm, like a heartbeat pretending it didn’t know what panic felt like.
Rachel finally spoke, voice small. “I’m scared.”
Rebecca’s grip tightened on the wheel. “Of college?”
Rachel let out a short laugh that sounded like it hurt. “Of leaving you.”
Rebecca’s eyes stayed on the road. “I’ll survive.”
“I know you will,” Rachel said. “That’s not the point.”
Rebecca’s jaw worked. The rain blurred the world into streaks.
They turned onto the familiar stretch toward the coast, and the smell of salt began to cut through the wet forest air. It dragged memories up like a hook.
Mom laughing at the shoreline, hair whipping in the wind. Mom’s hands warm around theirs. Mom alive. Before the car accident that changed everything.
Rebecca swallowed, hard.
Rachel looked at her, and Rebecca could feel the question building even before it came.
“So,” Rachel said carefully, “are you coming with me?”
Rebecca didn’t answer right away.
The truth was she’d rehearsed this conversation so many times it had grooves in her mind. She’d practiced sounding calm. She’d practiced not looking like she was begging.
She’d practiced not sounding like she wanted it.
“I can’t,” she managed at last.
Rachel’s face crumbled with disappointment, crumbling her heart right along with it. “Bec—.”
“Not now, Ray—” she warned sharply. Then continued in a lower tone to soften the blow, “you know how I feel about talking while driving in storms.”
Rachel reluctantly fell silent with a pointed look and she knew the conversation wasn’t going to be over.
The rest of the drive happened in quiet—the wet, oversaturated kind that didn’t need words because the words would spill too much otherwise.
By the time they reached the hotel, Rachel’s hands were steady again, but her eyes were bright.
The lobby smelled like lemon cleaner and carpet shampoo. A clerk smiled the tired polite little smile of someone who probably didn’t even get four hours of sleep last night and is at the point that he genuinely did not give a damn whether it’s an alien checking in.
Rachel held her ID out, long lashes trembling slightly when she blinked. She signed the slip with neat handwriting that looked calmer than she felt.
The keycard clicked into Rebecca’s palm. A little piece of plastic, and somehow it felt heavier than it should.
In the room, the door shut with a soft click that sounded final in a way Rebecca didn’t like.
Two beds. A desk. A lamp that didn’t flicker. A window with rain streaking down it and the glow of the city beyond.
Rachel stood in the middle of the room and let out a breath like she’d been holding it for three years.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Okay.”
Rebecca dropped the suitcase by the wall and checked the lock automatically, then the window latch, then the chain. Followed by a quick inspection of all the mirrors and reflective surfaces in the room.
Rachel set her duffel on the bed without comment and began unpacking small things—pajamas, clothes for tomorrow, toiletries—like routine could make the night less sharp.
Rebecca sat on the edge of the other bed, elbows on knees, and watched her twin move. The difference between them showed in the small details: Rachel’s hair still long, still something that could be brushed for beauty; Rebecca’s hair pulled back for function. Rachel’s hands smooth; Rebecca’s knuckles faintly marked. Rachel’s posture still had room to soften; Rebecca’s toned body stayed braced, ready at anything life may throw at her.
Rachel finally stopped and turned toward her.
Her eyes—dark brown, wet-bright—held Rebecca’s face like she was trying to memorize it.
“So? You are not behind the wheels anymore. Say something,” Rachel said quietly.
Rebecca’s mouth tightened. “What do you want me to say?”
Rachel’s lashes lowered, then lifted. “Anything. But starting on why you can’t come with me might not be a bad idea?”
Rebecca let out a short breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Fine. The bedspreads are ugly.”
Rachel’s mouth twitched. “Rebecca.”
Rebecca stared at the carpet for a second, jaw working. The room felt too quiet. Quiet made feelings louder.
She forced herself to look up.
“You know that is not going to work out. What? Are we going to pretend that when one of us goes missing, nobody is going to go look for the other first as the most obvious step? It was always going to be all or nothing, Ray. You know that.”
Rachel’s face crumpled instantly, like the words were a pin to a balloon she’d been holding all day, the moment when someone received their death sentence.
“Shhhh, you are okay,” Rebecca pulled her into her embrace knowingly, holding in her own tears suddenly became much easier when Rachel was falling apart in her arms, “Shhhh, we will be okay. Don’t cry, Rachel. I tried. I tried so so hard to keep us together. It just didn’t work. You know this. It doesn’t matter how far apart we are, I’d always love you and I know you’d always love me. We’d be okay wherever we go.”
The tears did not stop at her words, if anything, Rachel just seemed to wail louder, folding herself desperately into her embrace.
Rebecca held on tighter and rocked her gently, “Come on, don’t be like this on our last day together. I haven’t even told you yet, I’m so so proud of you,” she mumbled against her hair, voice rough with unshed emotions, blinking hard. “I am so so proud of you for getting out of there, Rachel, just like we always dreamt of. You should be happy right now. It’s your big day tomorrow, the start of your new life. Don’t cry.”
“Don’t,” Rachel whispered with a hiccup, and then shook her head as if she could shake the tears away. “No—don’t stop. Say it again.”
Rebecca’s throat tightened.
“I’m proud of you,” she repeated, firmer this time. “You did it. You actually did it. Smile for me?”
Rachel nodded in silence and sat down hard on the bed, one hand covering her mouth, trying to hold it in. Tears slipped anyway, silent and stubborn, as she drew a teary smile for her.
Rebecca watched, helpless in a way she hated. She didn’t do the whole crying and comfort thing well. She was always the one in motion to fix the situation but this—unfortunately, is something that she cannot fix, that no one can.
So she stood instead, grabbed the box of tissues from the desk, and tossed it onto Rachel’s bed like a peace offering.
Rachel let out a wet laugh. “Thank you.”
Rebecca sat again, closer now, but not touching. Not wanting to risk breaking the dam open again.
Rachel dabbed her eyes and took a shaky breath. “I’m excited,” she said. “I am. I swear. I just… I keep thinking about you being back there.”
Rebecca’s jaw clenched. “Don’t.”
Rachel looked at her, steady. “I’m not trying to guilt you.”
Rebecca’s eyes narrowed. “Then don’t talk like that.”
Rachel swallowed. “Okay. Then—then I’ll say it differently. I hate that you had to give up your door for mine.”
Rebecca’s mouth went hard.
Rachel hurried on, voice trembling. “And I know you’ll say you didn’t. I know you’ll say you chose this. And you did. But it still—Bec, it still feels unfair.”
Rebecca’s chest tightened so hard it almost hurt to breathe.
She stared at her hands. The skin around her nails was rough. There were faint marks at her knuckles that never fully went away. The hands of someone who held a family together while the world pretended that was nothing special.
“It is unfair,” Rebecca said quietly.
Rachel blinked, startled.
Rebecca lifted her eyes. “It’s unfair that Mom died and we had to grow up in a week. It’s unfair that Dad lost his legs and decided pride was more important than help. It’s unfair that Jacob still gets to be a kid because he could afford to be.” Her voice sharpened slightly. “It’s unfair that I got acceptance letters too.”
Rachel’s breath hitched.
Rebecca continued, the words coming like she’d been holding them behind her teeth for months. “I did the grades. I did the late nights. I did the forms. I did everything I could with the life we have. And it still wasn’t enough, because ‘enough’ costs money we don’t have. I swear I tried Rachel. It still wasn’t enough.”
Rachel’s eyes filled again.
Rebecca’s voice went lower, rawer. “So don’t talk like it’s a tragedy that you’re leaving. It’s a victory. It’s the only one we can afford right now.”
Rachel whispered, “Bec…”
Rebecca’s jaw flexed. Her stomach churned with that same sour nausea she’d been fighting all evening.
“You and I both know that we can’t stay there forever,” Rebecca said, voice was steady only because she forced it so, “I can’t keep doing this. That upcoming surfing tournament is a good opportunity for me to get out of this cleanly without bringing shame to the family name.”
Rachel nodded quickly, chewing on her lips uneasily, eyes wide. “I know. I do. But marrying–Bec, can’t we just wait another year? I can pick out some side gig too, there’s no need—”
Rebecca’s gaze sharpened as she cut her off forcefully. “Don’t you dare, Rachel. This is my choice. A sacrifice that I plan to make willingly. You. Are going to leave and your world is going to get bigger and you’ll breathe easier and you’ll forget how small that house feels when I—when we were the ones holding it up.”
Rachel swallowed hard, pleading in her eyes. “I won’t forget you. I can’t, Becca. Please don’t ask me to. I don’t even know how. There must be another way—”
Rebecca’s voice cut in, fierce. “Don’t promise things you can’t control. Just—just go. Take the life you earned. Don’t come back out of guilt.”
Rachel stared at her, tears tracking silently down her cheek again like a never-ending river of sorrow.
Rebecca exhaled, shaking off the edge in her voice like it was rainwater. She looked away, then back. “This is why I wanted tonight. One night where we don’t have to be strong in front of Dad. One night where you can cry if you want and nobody makes it about pride.”
Rachel’s laugh came out broken. “You say that like you’re not still trying to be strong.”
Rebecca’s mouth twitched. “I’m doing my best.”
Rachel reached out then—slowly, like she was approaching an animal that might bolt—and took Rebecca’s hand.
Rebecca stiffened for half a second, then let it happen.
Rachel’s fingers were warm. Familiar. The same grip that had held on in the dark backseat three years ago. The same grip that had kept Rebecca tethered when everything else spun.
Rachel whispered, “I don’t want this to be goodbye forever.”
Rebecca’s throat burned for the millionth time tonight.
She admonished, “It’s not. Might take a while but we will still talk over phone or videos. Technologies are advanced these days, you know.”
Rachel’s lashes lowered. “But everything changes after tonight.”
Rebecca’s gaze flicked to the window where rain streaked down the glass like the world was crying for them. “Yeah,” she admitted. “It does.”
Rachel squeezed her hand. “Promise me you’ll come visit if you can, before you get out.”
Rebecca huffed a short laugh. “In my truck? Driving a couple hours just to see you then turn back? Yeah right.”
Rachel glared at her through tears. “Rebecca.”
Rebecca’s mouth tightened, then softened just enough to be real. “I’ll try.”
Rachel pressed, “Promise me you’ll also think about other ways. To just leave without sacrificing yourself. Without putting others first.”
Rebecca rolled her eyes and reluctantly reiterated, “Fine. I’ll try.”
Rachel finally broke into a smile, nodding like that was enough, like “try” from Rebecca was a vow.
They flopped on bedding and stayed like that for a while—hands linked, the room quiet, rain tapping the window. Rachel’s breathing slowly steadied. Her shoulders lowered. The tension in her face eased inch by inch, exhaustion finally catching up now that she wrung the promises out of Rebecca.
Rachel’s voice went sleepy. “Hey Becca. Tell me something stupid.”
Rebecca arched an eyebrow. “You want stupid now?”
Rachel nodded, eyes half-closed. “Yes. Distract me.”
Rebecca stared at the ceiling, searching for something that wasn’t grief and regret.
“Well…The carpet looks like it’s been through a war,” she said.
Rachel’s mouth twitched and agreed. “It does.”
“And the lamp looks like it’s judging us,” Rebecca added, because if she didn’t make a joke, she’d say something that would break them both.
Rachel let out a quiet laugh that turned into a sigh. “You’re terrible.”
“I know.”
She turned onto her side, facing Rebecca. “Stay awake with me,” she murmured drowsily.
Rebecca kept her stare at the ceiling. “You’re going to sleep.”
Rachel’s eyes were heavy, but she fought it. “Just a little longer.”
Rebecca’s throat tightened. She reached over and flicked Rachel’s braid lightly—not playful, exactly. Grounding. A touch that said I’m here without having to say it.
Rachel’s eyelids fluttered. “You’re going to leave before I wake up.”
She didn’t state it like a question.
Rebecca didn’t answer.
Rachel’s mouth curved, faint and sad. “Because you can’t stand another round of morning goodbyes.”
Rebecca’s voice came out quiet. “Maybe. Maybe I’d surprise you.”
Rachel’s eyes softened. “Okay.”
Rebecca turned her head and looked at her twin—this person she’d protected like it was instinct, like it was breath. Rachel looked peaceful for the first time all day, sleep dragging her under.
Rachel’s eyes closed fully for a moment, then opened again, stubborn and insistent. “Stay until I fall asleep.”
Rebecca’s throat tightened. “Fine.”
Rachel shifted under the blankets. Her black hair fanned across the pillow, long lashes finally resting against her cheeks. Her skin looked warmer in the lamp light, russet and soft, like she belonged to a world that wasn’t built to grind and break people down.
Rachel’s voice was barely audible. “I love you. Don’t let this place make you small.”
Rebecca’s chest squeezed hard. She stared at their hands.
“I love you too,” she said, quiet and rough, like the words had edges.
Rachel’s fingers tightened once around hers, then loosened. Her breathing slowed. The stubbornness drained out of her face as sleep took over, piece by piece.
Rebecca stayed still, listening to Rachel’s breathing deepen into certainty.
Only then did she gently ease her hand free.
She stood slowly, careful not to jostle the bed. She moved around the room in near silence: shoes, jacket, keys. Not because she was leaving for good—she wasn’t. She’d be back tomorrow like expected. She was just stepping out because she couldn’t sit in a quiet room with her twin asleep and let the feelings flood her.
At the door, she paused and looked back.
Rachel slept on her side, hair spilling across the pillow, lashes dark against her cheeks. The room held the fragile peace of someone finally resting at ease.
Rebecca swallowed hard, jaw clenched.
Then she slipped out, letting the door click shut behind her as softly as possible.
The hotel corridor smelled like carpet shampoo and old air-conditioning, nothing like La Push, and for a few seconds she just stood there with her back against the door, breathing too shallow and too fast, listening to her own pulse in her ears.
Rachel is asleep. Safe. She made it through their last night intact.
Rebecca had done what she came to do.
So why did her body feel like it was about to crawl out of its own skin?
She rubbed a hand over her face, fingers snagging on the faint roughness at her knuckles, and forced herself to move. Down the hall. Past the ice machine. Past a vending machine that hummed like it had secrets. Out the side door into the wet night.
The rain hit her immediately—cold on her cheeks, running into her hairline, soaking the shoulders of her hoodie in seconds. She didn’t flinch.
Rain was normal, just another daily occurrence that you just get used to growing up in a place like La Push.
She stepped under the shallow awning anyway with her hands shoved into her pockets, and looked out at the parking lot, the puddles reflecting streetlights into broken coins. The air tasted like wet asphalt and distant ocean. Familiar despite everything.
She pulled her ponytail tighter, then let it be. It would dry when it dried.
Her phone said it was late. Later than she thought. She could go back upstairs, lie in the other bed, close her eyes, pretend this was a normal night.
Except normal was a lie her life had stopped believing three years ago.
She walked instead.
Not far—just along the sidewalk beside the hotel, past a couple of dark storefronts and a closed coffee place, boots splashing shallow puddles.
Moving made the voices in her head quieter.
Sometimes, movement was the only thing that ever helped when thoughts got too loud.
Her stomach still churned with the type of sour tang of nausea that came from adrenaline with nowhere to go.
The parking lot lights made halos in the rain. Cars sat in neat rows, slick with water. Everything smelled like wet asphalt and detergent and the faint oily tang of a nearby road.
That’s when she saw her.
A girl.
Young. Slight. Asian-looking. Drenched so thoroughly her hair clung to her face and neck in long dark strings. She was hugging herself, shoulders lifted, shivering hard enough that her whole body trembled. With nothing on her but a soaked hoodie and the kind of haunted-looking stare that made Rebecca’s spine tighten automatically.
The girl turned her head as Rebecca approached, like a startled animal.
Rebecca slowed.
It’s good to see that she still had some common sense at least.
Strangers at night. Rain. Empty streets. Trouble loved places like this—quiet corners where nobody would hear you.
The girl didn’t run though. She just stared at Rebecca with those wide and glossy eyes, looking somewhat lost and defeated, waiting for her to pass by.
Rebecca stopped a few feet away. Close enough to be heard. Far enough to bolt if she needed to.
“You okay?” Rebecca asked.
The girl’s mouth opened. Nothing came out. She swallowed, throat working hard.
Rebecca exhaled through her nose. “That’s a no.”
The girl’s voice finally appeared—thin and strained, like it had been washed out by rain. “I… I don’t have anywhere to go.”
Her instincts snapped into place. The same instinct that had kept Rachel fed and Jacob alive and Billy functioning. The one that hated itself because it always stepped forward anyway.
Rebecca shifted her weight, eyes scanning their surroundings—empty sidewalk, closed storefronts, no obvious adults storming around looking for someone, no police lights. Just rain and the faint hum of highway somewhere in the distance.
“You can’t just stand out here,” Rebecca’s eyes narrowed slightly as she turned back to the girl with a sigh, and proceeded to ask, blunt the way she was when she didn’t have patience for dancing around a point. “Did you ran away or are you lost?”
The girl blinked, wary. She didn’t answer right away, like she was deciding whether Rebecca was a predator with a different face.
Rebecca’s jaw tightened. “I’m not a cop. I’m not asking for your life story. I’m asking to see if you’re about to freeze out here.”
The girl blinked rapidly in response, a well-rehearsed lie automatically slipped out without thought. “I’m fine.”
Rebecca barked a short laugh. “Sure. And I’m the Tooth Fairy.”
The girl’s lips parted like she might laugh, but the sound didn’t make it out. Her teeth clattered in the cold.
Rebecca looked around again. Empty street. Closed shops. Cars passing occasionally, too fast to notice anything beyond their own headlights.
She made a decision before she could second-guess it.
“Come on,” Rebecca said, gesturing with her chin. “My truck’s right there.”
The girl flinched. Suspicion flashed across her face—quick, reasonable, smart.
Rebecca respected it.
“Don’t,” Rebecca said flatly, seeing the hesitation. “If you want to be cautious, be cautious. That’s good. But you’re going to get hypothermia out here and then your cautious won’t matter.”
The girl’s throat bobbed. “Who are you?”
“You can call me Bec. Does it matter?” Rebecca barked a laugh and leaned closer, eyes bright, wild, exhausted. “Listen. You can either come with me and let me drive you to a nearby fastfood place, or you can keep standing in the rain until something worse than me finds you. Your choice—but better make it quick since I’m not really in the mood to drag your frozen body off this sidewalk.”
The girl hesitated one more heartbeat, then stepped forward, trembling.
“Okay,” she whispered.
Rebecca turned and walked fast, leading her back toward the hotel lot, around the corner, to the battered truck parked where she could see it from the room window. Rebecca unlocked it, yanked open the passenger door, and tossed her spare hoodie onto the seat.
“Put that on,” she ordered. “And buckle.”
The girl climbed in clumsily, fingers stiff, and pulled the hoodie over her head. It swallowed her, too big, but it was warm-ish and dry-ish and that mattered more than dignity.
Rebecca got in the driver’s side and shut the door hard enough to cut out some of the rain noise. For a second the cab felt like a bubble.
The girl sat hunched, clutching the hoodie tight. Her face was pale under wet hair. Her eyes were dark and unfocused like she’d been running on panic too long.
Rebecca started the engine and cranked the heat. The vents breathed warm air.
The girl shuddered, a soft sound like relief breaking.
Rebecca drove to the nearest fast-food place that was still open and bought two meals without asking. When the girl stared at the bag like she didn’t trust it, Rebecca shoved it toward her.
“Eat,” Rebecca said. “If you’re going to pass out, do it after you’ve got food in you.”
The girl’s voice was small. “Why are you helping me?”
Rebecca’s laugh was quiet and sharp. “Don’t make it weird. I just so happened to be in a sentimental mood tonight. It’ll pass.”
The girl blinked.
Rebecca glanced sideways. The girl’s features were East Asian—maybe Japanese, maybe Chinese, maybe something else. Eyes wide and trusting. Youthful looking. Too young.
“Okay,” Rebecca exhaled a slow sigh and asked. “What’s your name.”
The girl hesitated, then said, “Yuu.”
Rebecca blinked and repeated. “Yuu?”
Yuu nodded, as if confirming her own existence. “Just… Yuu.”
Rebecca said, “Now then. Yuu. Any phone numbers?”
Yuu’s brows knit as if the concept had to travel a long way to reach her. “I… I don’t have any. I don’t have a phone.”
Rebecca stared.
“That’s not—” Rebecca began, then stopped, because she could hear how harsh she sounded. She exhaled slowly. “Okay. Do you have ID?”
Yuu fumbled in her pocket and produced… nothing. Empty. Wet lint.
Rebecca’s jaw tightened. The nausea in her stomach curled again, sourer.
Rebecca nodded once. “Fine. Yuu. Here’s the deal.” She pointed at the dashboard like she was laying down terms in court. “You can sleep in the car tonight. I’ll park somewhere not stupid. I’ll lock it. You don’t open it for anyone. You don’t touch my stuff. You don’t try anything weird. You don’t scream and get us both arrested. If you do, I will personally make sure you regret being born.”
Yuu’s eyes widened.
Rebecca’s mouth twitched. “Good. Fear is healthy.”
Yuu clutched her fries with both hands. “Okay.”
Rebecca stared through the windshield at the rain-slick street. Her body finally started to sag, the adrenaline of the night leaking out.
Rachel is asleep right above.
She should go upstairs. She should sleep. Rachel deserved a normal morning.
Except… she couldn’t just leave this kid on the street.
Rebecca rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand. “Put your seat back. Try to sleep.”
Yuu hesitated, then did as told, curling up awkwardly.
Rebecca stayed in the driver’s seat, hands loose on the wheel, staring at the rain-smeared windshield.
And then something shifted in the dark.
It was subtle at first. A change in the air pressure. A quiet drop, like her ears had popped without sound.
Rebecca blinked hard.
The streetlights looked too bright. The rain lines on the glass seemed to stretch, then snap back. Her stomach lurched as if the truck had moved, but the world outside hadn’t.
She swallowed, suddenly dizzy.
Sleepiness rolled over her in a wave—heavy, unnatural, immediate. Not the tiredness of a long day. Something deeper, like her body was being dragged downward, being submerged.
Rebecca’s grip tightened on the wheel.
The sudden drowsiness washed over her again, trying to pulling her under.
She shook her head and glanced at Yuu. The girl’s eyes were open—wide, frightened, lucid in the dim cab light.
Yuu whispered, pointing forward, “What is that thing?”
Rebecca’s head snapped back in an instant.
There, beyond the glass—between puddles that mirrored streetlamps—was a carriage.
A black regal carriage, long and severe, with a gate-like door built into it, charging straight toward them at high velocity like it had been given an address and a deadline with zero safety guideline.
Rebecca’s stomach dropped so hard it felt like her insides were trying to evacuate.
“Shit! Yuu,” she barked, one hand already reaching for the door lock, and the other for the ignition, for something that made sense.
Another wave of drowsiness hits. Rebecca’s eyelids felt like weights. Her head dipped once—jerked back up, hand stubborning reaching towards the gear shift.
—and then her whole arm went heavy.
Like gravity doubled just for her.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. Adrenaline fought the pull, but the pull was stronger.
The world began to soften at the edges like dissolving wet paint.
Rebecca tried to speak. Her tongue felt thick.
Her eyelids dragged downward as if sleep was a rope around her ankles.
“No,” Rebecca rasped, and the word came out wrong, thick. “No—”
Yuu made a small sound beside her, terrified and strangled, and reached for Rebecca’s sleeve.
Rebecca tried to force her eyes open wider.
The carriage came closer now, close enough the metalwork gleamed in the light.
The world dropped away before her as she sunk into darkness’s comforting embrace.
Rebecca woke from her deep slumber to muffled scratching noises.
Irritating and insistent. Like a nail catching on wood over and over, refusing to give up.
Her body jolted awake on pure annoyance first—then her mind caught up half a heartbeat later and the annoyance snapped into alertness so fast it made her stomach drop.
She cracked one eye open.
Saw nothing.
Or rather—she saw what she did not see.
Darkness greeted her.
Total. Enveloping.
For a second, an irrational fear ballooned in her chest like it had been waiting behind a door: Did I go blind? Her hand shot up toward her face, fingers brushing her eyelid, her brow, the bridge of her nose—no pain, no blood, no sting. She tried to blink again and again, as if she could force light into existence.
Nothing.
Her other hand lifted, seeking the air.
It met resistance almost immediately.
A wall. Less than an arm’s length away. Right in front of her.
Rebecca froze.
Her heartbeat slammed into her throat. A cold pressure rose behind her ribs, tight and sharp. Claustrophobia flooded her so fast it felt like drowning in dry air.
Trapped—
Where—her brain tried to demand, then skidded because the sound yanked her attention before she could spiral into the kind of mind-numbing panic that could make her stupod.
A dry, stubborn scrape—pause—scrape again, like nails worrying at a stuck edge.
She forgot her dilemma at the moment to focus on it, turning toward the sound as much as the space allowed and listened harder.
Left. Slightly above.
Close enough that the vibration seemed to travel through the space around her.
A voice muttered nearby, hurried and smug, like someone doing something they weren’t supposed to be doing.
“I better hurry up and find that uniform before someone spots me…”
Someone was out there.
In this very room with her.
Rebecca’s pulse punched once, then raced. Panic tried to flood her limbs. She clamped down on it the way she clamped down on everything: jaw tight, breathing shallow, hands steady on purpose.
She reached out with palms outward in quiet sweeping motions, trying to map her surroundings—turning side to sides in quick successions of movement.
Cushioned silk-like paddings greeted her from the sides and back.
Cold realization sunk in. She was trapped in a box. With someone moving closeby outside of it.
The scent of candle wax and varnish sat thick in her throat. Her stomach flipped and she swallowed hard, keeping the bile down by force. Stuffing all the panics back in a box within the dark attic of her mind recess.
There’s no time to waste on that.
Focus on the now.
Rebecca listened intently as she returned to the exploration of wood in front of her—one more scrape, a grunt, a shift in weight on wood.
The sound—the voice— was outside her box. Something was clearly moving around in the room with her.
Her fingers rose and met smooth wood inches from her face. She traced along it until her nail caught an edge—where one plane ended and another began. Hinges somewhere along one side; she could feel a firmer line, a pivot point.
A lid. A door. Something that swung outward.
A bright flare of hope lit inside her—small, fierce, irrational. The kind of hope you grabbed with both hands in a situation that had no business offering you any.
The scratching noises got louder.
“Urgggh… This lid weighs a ton!”
Rebecca’s throat tightened. She pushed, slow and careful at first.
The panel resisted, then gave. Candlelight leaked through the widening gap, and the hinge let out a long ominous creak that echoed through stone.
The scratching instantly stopped.
A beat of silence hit so sharply she felt it on her skin.
Then a high voice snapped, startled and angry at the same time:
“What?!”
Well—so much for being careful, the cats clearly out of the bag now.
Rebecca wasted no time in shoving the door fully open.
She stepped forward in haste and found air.
Her foot dropped and her stomach dropped with it. Pure reflex took over—both hands shot out and latched onto the edge of the lid she’d just pushed, fingers slipping on glossy surface. She swung awkwardly, boots searching for ground like a swimmer kicking for the bottom of a pool. Finally her sole scraped stone, and she dropped, landing on one knee with a jarring smack.
Pain lit up her shin. She hissed, breath catching.
She lifted her head and took in her surroundings in a quick sweep, bracing for threats.
The room was full of upright elaborately decorated black boxes like the one she just stepped out of, lined in rows, each one hovering in air with opened lids.
They floated at different heights. Some close enough to step down. Others high enough to demand a climb.
Rebecca can’t help but silently thanked all the forces in the universe that hers were hovering on a relatively low height that didn’t break her neck on that little impromptu reckless escapade.
Candle sconces burned along stone walls, some floating in air, throwing shifting reflections across lacquered surfaces.
It was a magical scene—breathtaking in a medieval, impossible way—if she wasn’t currently trying to figure out how she’d ended up here and whether she was about to die.
Rebecca forced herself to stop staring.
Flourish could wait. Awe could wait.
Escape path came first.
There must be a way out of this ridiculous chamber.
Her wandering eyes snapped to the far end of the room after a quick scan, where an iron door sat loomingly, seam leaking sound—voices, layered, restless, like a crowd beyond.
Rebecca’s eyes moved fast, slicing the room into usable information: height differences, spacing between rows, where a body could weave, where it would snag.
A straight shot to the iron door existed in theory. But in realities, all the floating coffins made a staggered maze that forced detours.
And perched atop one of those floating boxes, a mere row away, was the thing that had yelped.
Small. Catlike. Blue flames flickering from its ears like torchfire. Bright eyes narrowed at her with personal offense.
“You’re awake?!” it shrieked. “You— You’re not supposed to be awake!”
It squinted around the room again as if the math of “who’s still asleep” mattered to its plan.
“You weren’t even supposed to still be here. I thought I was the last one left!”
Rebecca pushed herself upright, one hand still braced on the lacquer because her legs were shaking with aftershock. She took in her own clothes in one sharp glance—black robe with golden inscriptions with a blue belt, a hood’s weight on her shoulder, gloves fitted to her palm. The uniform looked expensive. It sat on her comfortably like a second pair of skin.
It was a uniform with beautiful craftsmanship that she would happily wear—if she was the actual one putting it on.
…She has no idea how did this got on her.
Rebecca swallowed.
“What is this place?” she demanded, voice hard, breath still too fast. “And why am I in—” She cut herself off, eyes flicking up at the floating rows again. “Why is any of this floating?”
The creature’s flames flared. It pointed a paw at her, furious.
“Lower your voice! Someone will hear!”
Rebecca barked a short laugh, more disbelief than humor. “Someone like you?”
Its eyes darted toward the iron door again. The panic in its posture sharpened; the fear wasn’t of Rebecca, it was of being caught by whoever lived beyond that door.
“You’re going to ruin everything,” it snapped, waving a dismissive paw in her general direction. “Stay right there. Shut up. Don’t move.”
Then it turned away from her as if she’d been dealt with and hooked its claws under the lid of another upright box.
“Now to grab the goods…” muttering to itself, attention focused.
Ha! As if she’d be bossed around by a flaming cat.
Rebecca’s gaze locked onto the iron door at the end of the room with single-minded determination .
The escape path is clear but not straight, typical obstacle course. The floating rows of coffins would require some snaking and weaving in-between.
She’s confident she could do it—she was fit, quick on her feet—just needed to be careful not to crash into one of the floating coffins or hit the stone wall.
She shifted her weight and tested her balance on the floor again subtly. Readying herself for the race.
Behind her, the creature hauled at the lid it was prying. Wood groaned.
“Urgggh—come on—”
Rebecca sprinted without bothering to argue with a flaming cat about whether she was allowed to leave.
Her knee throbbed. She ignored it.
She spotted a candle stand that held metal tools along the walls containing a snuffer, tongs, and a small poker.
And she made a beeline towards it, moving laterally and staying low, keeping the door in sight as well as a coffin as cover between herself and the creature at all times. Snatched up the long metal snuffer as she passed.
The cold weight pressed into her palm like a whisper of comfort despite its short reach.
Better than nothing.
She didn’t want to fight a magical flaming cat, but she also wanted to be realistic—if it came down to it, she wanted something in her hands that wasn’t just sheer intangible hope.
The metal clinking alerted the creature to her whereabouts and it snapped at her back without turning fully.
“I told you to stay put!”
Rebecca’s answer came out sharp and impatient, the edge of panic still in it. “I’m leaving. Catch up with your own problems.”
The creature hissed something obscene and yanked harder.
“Try this on for size! Mya-ha!”
Blue flame whooshed. Heat rolled across the room like an opening oven.
The lid finally cracked open at it’s insistent pulling.
A muffled scream burst out from inside the box.
“BWAAAH?! F-fire?!”
The lid swung outward from the inside and a girl stumbled out coughing, hair disheveled, robe tangled around her shoulders.
The familiar petite Asian girl she saw before all this.
Yuu.
Yuu blinked hard at the close-up flaming creature first, then snapped her head around at the floating rows of coffins around in confusion. Her breath hitched.
“A talking… w-weasal?!”
Then, louder, driven by panic rising in her chest, “Floating coffins?!”
Her gaze snapped to Rebecca—the only other human body in the room—one that she recognized, sprinting with purpose toward the door.
“Hey—!” Yuu’s voice cracked. “Wait! Bec! Please—what is going on?!”
Rebecca didn’t double back. The iron door stayed her sole anchor in this whole crazy situation she woke up in. Still, kindness cost almost nothing right now, and she could afford one breath of it.
She pointed sharply at the iron door with the snuffer in her hand and spared her a glance.
“Door’s that way,” she yelled, loud enough to cut through the room. “Run.”
Yuu’s eyes followed her finger. She swallowed and nodded, ragged, clearly taking her advice to heart.
The creature bristled even more, already on edge at the word weasel like it had been stabbed.
“How DARE you! Don’t you DARE! I’m no weasel!” it shrieked. “I’m Grim, sorcerer extraordinaire!”
Then its eyes snapped back to Yuu’s uniform, hungry with intent.
“Tch. Whatever. You—human. Give me that uniform. Now. Quickly.”
Yuu clutched her lapels. “No! Are you crazy? I don’t know why am I even wearing this but I’m not going to just strip for you!”
Grim hopped down onto the edge of her coffin-door, claws scraping lacquer.
“Because it’s mine,” it spat. “And if you keep shouting, I’ll roast you. Give it to me!”
Rebecca’s grip tightened on the snuffer as she shot Yuu a pointed look, moving still.
Wrestle with a creature with fire on its ears is probably a very very stupid idea right now.
She mouthed ‘Run’ and weaved as demonstration, shifting between coffins so Grim couldn’t take a straight line to her back.
Yuu didn’t bother conversing with Grim anymore and raced behind Rebecca’s escape path without another word, trying hard to follow the only clear direction she’d seen. The maze of coffins forced her closer than Rebecca would have chosen.
Rebecca grinded her teeth and snapped, “Stay behind the boxes. Zigzag. Don’t give him a straight shot.”
Yuu’s eyes widened but followed her instructions obediently—awkward, terrified, but moving.
Grim’s flames flared brighter as he scrambled after Yuu.
“You’re going to get me caught! Stop!” he shrieked.
Heat surged again—closer this time. A burst of flame slapped stone with a hiss near the path to the iron door, bright enough to throw shadows across the coffins.
Yuu screamed.
Rebecca’s body reacted before her mind finished the thought. She lunged, grabbed Yuu’s sleeve, and yanked her sideways behind a floating coffin’s edge. The lacquered door between them and the scorch mark made a thin shield, better than open air.
“Run,” Rebecca hissed, close to Yuu’s ear. “Now.”
They bolted.
The iron door was heavier than it looks. Rebecca slammed into it shoulder-first. It resisted. She hit it again, harder, and it groaned open a crack.
Sound spilled through: a larger hall, voices, movement.
A third hit forced it wide enough to slip through.
They stumbled into the corridor beyond, candlelit stone and banners and echoing sound. Rebecca turned to shove the door close again—
—and someone was already there.
A black-haired man strode toward them with the posture of a stage performer who’d never doubted the room would make space for him. Cape. Feathered hat. A crow-like mask with eerie yellow glows at the approximate area of his eyes. A whip coiled loose in one gloved hand like it was part accessory, part warning.
Behind them, Grim shot toward the doorway, flames flaring with rage—
—and the man’s whip snapped out with casual precision. It cracked the air and smacked Grim’s head with a sharp report that made the creature flinch hard.
Grim yelped, affronted. “Me-YEOW! That hurt! What gives?!”
“Consider it tough love,” the masked man said, voice smooth, almost bored. Looking at Grim like a nuisance beneath his notice.
His attention moved to the two humans in matching uniforms—Rebecca and Yuu—then drifted back to the floating coffins beyond the door as if he’d seen it all before.
“Ah, I’ve found you at last. Or rather—“ he chuckled and continued, tone bright and expectant, oddly cheerful, “you found me. Splendid. Though I would say usually new students have the common sense to wait for me to open the gate as in tradition. Unprecedented really. For students to just leave the gate on their own.”
Yuu stared at him, panting. “New—what? I—”
He continued over her confusion as if it were background noise.
“My, were you two ever eager to make your debut.” His gaze flicked toward Grim, then back to the girls, turning just a bit stern with a disapproving tilt of his lips. “I must say however, bringing a poorly trained familiar with you is a clear violation of the school’s rules.”
Grim bristled. “As if I’d serve some lowly human!”
The masked man’s only response was a sigh that carried pure disinterest.
“Yes, yes.” He didn’t even bothered to look down. The whip looped and snapped lightly around Grim’s scruff with a practiced flick, hauling the creature close enough that its paws scrabbled uselessly. “Aren’t that what all the rebellious ones say? Do be quiet for a bit, won’t you?”
Grim’s next outburst turned muffled as he thrashed against his confinement.
Rebecca didn’t let the man’s assumption settle. She stepped half a pace forward with her head lowered, speaking fast while her voice still worked.
“Sir—this magical creature came out of nowhere and started attacking us with fire after we woke up trapped inside those coffins,” she said, words spilling clean and coherent through adrenaline. “I didn’t bring him. I don’t even know what he is.”
Yuu jumped in, voice shaking with anger. “He forced my coffin open! He tried to steal my uniform! And even blasted us with fireballs! Where even are we?”
The crow man tilted his masked head, clearly mildly skeptical at the story he’s being told and just a tad irritated at the unexpected turn of event.
“How troublesome, it appears that the teleportation magic has left you disoriented,” he said, already bored of the whole thing. He lifted his chin imperiously. “No matter. I shall give you a quick explanation as we make way to the Mirror Chamber. For I am gracious. We must make haste however, the entrance ceremony is already well underway. Come along now, shall we?”
He turned with a dramatic swoosh of his cape and led the way without waiting for responses, still causally dragging Grim along like an unruly accessory.
Rebecca shared a silent look with Yuu and began trailing behind him obediently. Eyes flicking to the whip and then to the corridor’s turns, automatically committing the layout to memory while mapping exits.
Magic. Fireballs. Talking cats on fire. Coffins that floated mid-airs.
Her stomach twisted with a sick, reluctant understanding that this wasn’t a prank, and she likely nowhere near home.
“Ahem,” the crow-man started with a self-important theatrical cough, “As you may know, I am Dire Crowley, headmaster of Night Raven College—the one and only most prestigious magical academy existed in history of Twisted Wonderland. Only budding mages blessed with unprecedented talents deemed worthy by the Dark Mirror have the privilege to attend.”
He tilted his head with an awkward wink that somehow still conveyed through his crow mask, “The very ground that you two now have the honor to be standing upon.”
He continued, clearly pleased with himself, “As in tradition, an ebony carriage carrying the gate is sent to welcome the new students chosen by the Dark Mirror—“
Rebecca nodded quietly in response, now remembering the carriage crashing into her truck before everything faded into darkness with surprising clarity and a whole new perspective of what that meant.
She couldn't help but wonder if she was meant to be here at this point.
Strange as everything was thus far.
A magical academy where she was chosen as a new student due to her supposed unprecedented magical gift…actually didn’t sound bad?
Sure, the whole reception process was certainly not the best. And the awakening process was a bit unconventional but on the other hand, it was also apparently interrupted by that creature there…
She eyed the back of the struggling flaming black cat Crowley is casually dragging beside him before returning to her muse.
Fireballs, levitations, whips—are those skills that she’d be learning in this school then?
Magic? And combat?
What else?
Rachel is not going to believe this.
A slow trickle of excitement spread through her at the thought, distracting her from the question the other girl posed.
She snapped back to now just to catch the second half of the headmaster’s explanation.
“—the coffins that you speak of. They are to symbolize the farewell to their old world and reborn—also to keep the students asleep until the door is opened with a special key as tradition.”
He looked to the girls with questions in his yellow glowing eyes and they immediately pointed to Grim as one.
Identifying the culprit at work.
He looked down with a startled glance, “Ah—right. Familiars. Of course,” and exasperated sigh as he drawled with bored familiarity of a man who probably had to repeat this a million times, “Please note that all familiars taken to this academy must be taken care of properly by its owner. Actions of familiars are always the responsibility of owner—oh there we are. Come now, the ceremony is about to end!”
They entered the Mirror Chamber at the tail end of the entrance ceremony.
Candlelight. Banners. Rows of students in ceremonial robes facing a raised platform and an enormous dark mirror framed in iron.
The air was dense with eyes.
Rowdiness still saturated the air with the assumption that the ceremony already reached its finality.
Rebecca’s heart sank in one clean drop as she took in the crowd.
Male voices. Male bodies. Male uniforms. The way they stood in rows with casual ownership of space.
Not a single girl in sight.
She swallowed hard as she took in the surroundings.
Not a single one.
All prior hope and excitement flushed down the drain in one go.
An all-boys academy.
Cold sweat prickled in the back of her neck as familiar bitterness swelled in her heart.
She should’ve known—
Too good to be true as always.
As everything else in her life.
Always a misfit wherever she goes.
…There must have been an error.
A terrible mistake—
Is there a poor wizard out there wandering about waiting for a carriage that would never come?
Her robe felt heavier.
Her gloves felt like a lie.
She bent her head to hide her grimace, pretending to straighten her gloves, wondering to herself just when will the facade be revealed.
By the time Rebecca raised her head, her face was steady and blank again. Free of the turmoil inside. Just as she had done millions of times before.
Crowley clapped his hands and reclaimed the room as if nothing had happened.
“Now now! Settle down! I only went to fetch the remaining late newcomers. The ceremony will end shortly.”
The room quieted reluctantly and he nodded towards the giant floating mirror lit with swirling green flames and a haunting white mask in the center of the stage, signaling them forward.
“You two are the only ones who have yet to be assigned a dorm,” he declared briskly and expectantly, as though the sorting process was the only thing that mattered at the moment and they should be racing each other to face the judgement of this Dark Mirror.
The girls looked at each other, neither of them stood forth.
He sighed impatiently. “You there—step up to the Dark Mirror.”
He pointed at Yuu first.
Small miracle.
Yuu swallowed and stepped forward, one step before the other, shoulders tight, eyes glossy with fear, until she stopped right in front of that mirror crackling with malicious energy, looking just like the depiction of the famed evil queen’s mirror in Snow White’s fairytale.
The mirror’s voice rolled out, deep and cold.
“State thy name.”
“I’m Yuu,” she said, voice thin.
The mirror paused, like it was listening for something that wasn’t there.
“The state of thy soul…”
A long silence filled the air.
Murmurs began in the crowds, indicating the abnormality of this.
After a long beat, it finally said.
“…is unknown.”
Crowley’s mysterious smile turned blank. “What did you just say?”
The mirror’s judgment came down in clinical phrases, a slight hint of disbelief curving.
“I sense no magical power from this one. Soundless. Colorless. Shapeless. Utterly vacant.
Therefore, no dorm would be appropriate.”
Yuu went deadly pale.
Rebecca’s stomach rolled again, sharp and sour. She watched Yuu’s hands curl, watched her shoulders pull inward. She knew that posture all too well—someone being told they didn’t belong.
The sting of being told you are not good enough.
…she wondered if she’d be next.
Crowley sputtered, cheer dissipated like smoke, “Are you suggesting that the black carriage went to receive a person who cannot even use magic?” He cried, affronted at the idea that there could be an error in their century-long tradition, “But that is absurd! The student selection process has not erred once in its century of existence! How could this have happened?”
In his grip, Grim convulsed like the room’s attention was oxygen and struggled free of his whip.
“ME!” Grim screamed. “Let ME have this student’s seat!”
Crowley’s grip tightened, impatience flashed through his mask. “Not so fast!”
Grim thrashed free enough to fling himself forward, shouting about spells, about magical talent, about being extraordinary—
—and then he proved what “extraordinary” meant in the worst way.
Fire burst into the air, bright and hot and uncontrolled.
The room erupted. Students shouted. Someone screamed as flame caught on fabric—an honest-to-God human scream that turned into frantic slapping and panic. The smell of singed cloth hit hard.
Crowley’s voice cracked across the chaos, fury evident. “Someone catch that blasted animal before it sets the entire school ablaze!”
Rebecca moved instantly. She grabbed Yuu’s sleeve and yanked her backward toward a stone column.
“Down!” she snapped.
Yuu stumbled behind stone with her, eyes huge, breath shaking, as chaos continued its course outside. The scream from the burning student made Yuu flinch like it was a physical blow.
A red-haired boy’s voice cut through the chaos like a blade.
“OFF WITH YOUR HEAD!”
His spell manifested onto Grim—in the form of a collar clamping around his neck. Grim shrieked, tried to flame again, and panicked when nothing happened.
Crowley turned back to Yuu, irritated, searching for someone to blame because blame was easier than admitting the day had gone off-script.
“Yuu! Was I not clear that you are expected to take responsibility for your familiar? Now discipline your—”
Yuu’s voice shook with fury. “I’ve told you repeatedly that I've never seen that creature before in my life!”
“Oh…Is that so?” Crowley coughed and smoothed his tone into bright ‘kindness’ once again.
“Then I shall have it removed from campus, I shall even spare it from being served as dinner. My, but I AM kind.” he announced, like he was ordering trash taken out. “...Someone take this away, please.”
Grim screamed as he was dragged off, promising fame and revenge.
The chamber steadied into uneasy order again, scorched and shaken.
Crowley turned back to Yuu with fanciful regret performed like a bow.
“Well, Yuu. This is a most unfortunate turn of events. I'm afraid that you will not be attending Night Raven College after all. Surely you realize that I cannot very well admit a student with no magical ability to my academy. But worry not. The Dark Mirror will see you safely home.”
He gestured towards the Mirror, beckoning her forward, “Now, step into the gate, and visualize the place you whence you came.”
Yuu wordlessly stepped into the gate as told, and Crowley commanded the mirror to return her. “O Dark Mirror! Return this soul to where it belongs!”
Nothing happened. Yuu cranked open an eye to see if she was back.
Rebecca watched intently too, committing the outcome to memory in case she was next.
Crowley coughed, “L-let us, er...try this again. O Dark Mirror! Return this soul—”
The mirror interjected this time, not even bothering to let him finish his frivolous incantation.
“There is no such place.”
“What?” Clearly the headmaster had not been anticipating that there could be any limitation to the magic of the Dark Mirror.
The mirror repeated, slightly irritated and sounding colder on sheer principle.
“There is no place in this world where this soul belongs. None.”
Silence hit the chamber like a wave.
Crowley sagged slightly, confusion seeping through his entire demeanor. He turned to Yuu and admitted, “This has never happened throughout my long tenure. I must confess that I am at something of a loss.” He asked, “Tell me: From what land do you hail?”
Yuu’s shoulders slumped. Her eyes flicked toward Rebecca—helpless, searching as she replied.
Judging by Crowley’s expression, ‘USA’ and ‘Washington’ clearly meant nothing to him.
He shook his head, “We will go look it up in the library later,” he said, as if paper could map worlds. “After we wrap up this long-overdue ceremony, that is.”
Crowley’s attention finally swung to Rebecca, brisk and practical.
“Now you,” he said. “Step up.”
Rebecca walked forward. Every eye in the room followed her, curious now in that predatory way crowds got when the spectacle wasn’t over.
The mirror’s voice rolled out again.
“State thy name.”
Her heart hammered. The world had already taken her somewhere she’d never planned for. It had given her a uniform. It had surrounded her with boys and magic and rules she didn’t know. But it was obvious that it was most likely an odd cosmic glitch given Yuu’s sorting?
Surely, since they are from the same world, she would be just as magic-less?
She opened her mouth regardless.
“Reb—,” she started, and felt her heart jump into her throat. The syllable tasted like risk.
She caught herself. Cleared her throat, feigning discomfort—an easy cover for the stumble—while her brain sprinted.
“Wreck,” she said again, firmer. “Wreck Black.”
The Dark Mirror judged her in a moment of solemn silence that seemed to stretch on for infinity.
“The nature of thy soul is...Savanaclaw.”
It landed like a stamp.
The headmaster instantly relaxed at the normal completion of sorting, happy that he only had one anomaly to deal with.
…For one suspended second, Rebecca felt nothing at all.
Then in the next breath, relief and dread hit so fast they blurred.
Somewhere in the crowd, a lion-eared boy lazily waved towards her, and motioned for his house to follow.
Crowley was already turning, gesturing Yuu toward the exit, still talking about the library, still trying to fix an impossible phenomenon with a book.
Rebecca stood for one heartbeat longer in front of the mirror, feeling the room’s eyes on her and the weight of what she’d just done settle in her bones.
She’d wanted out of her life for years.
She’d never imagined “out” looked like this.
Relief flashed, small and involuntary—freedom’s scent—followed immediately by fear sharp enough to make her palms sweat inside her gloves.
Then she turned and walked toward the group of Savanaclaw, grip tight on the metal snuffer still sitting in her palm, shoulders squared under a swirling robe she hadn’t asked for, moving because standing still had never saved her.