I never meant to talk to him.

I’ve been here less than a week, and already Jace Morgan has looked at me more times than anyone did in my last school—maybe in my last life. I don’t need his attention. I don’t want it. Because attention brings questions, and questions lead to places I don’t want to go.

But the thing about Silver Hollow is that secrets echo here. They bounce off the walls and slip under your skin when you’re not looking.

Kind of like Jace.

He showed up again today. After practice. In the rain. Like I wasn’t trying to be invisible.

And now, I can’t stop thinking about him.

I sit on the edge of my bed, window cracked open to the sound of the storm. The house is silent. Aunt Moira is downstairs, probably watching one of her old crime dramas with the volume low. She doesn’t ask where I go after school. She doesn’t want to know, and I don’t blame her.

I press my thumb into the bruise on my wrist. Not hard. Just enough to feel the ache.

It’s not from what he thinks. But I let him believe it anyway.

Because the truth?

That would scare him a lot more.

“Do you always sit under bleachers when it rains?” Jace asks me the next day.

His voice catches me off guard. I’d thought he’d pretend yesterday didn’t happen. Most people would.

“Do you always follow girls after practice?” I shoot back.

He smirks, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You looked… not okay.”

“I was fine.”

“You were soaked.”

“So were you.”

He lets out a low breath and leans against the lockers. We’re in the hallway outside English, early enough that no one else is around yet.

“Why do you keep pushing people away?” he asks.

I narrow my eyes. “I don’t. People just don’t come close.”

“I’m close now.”

“And I’m trying to fix that.”

That makes him laugh—quiet, rough, the kind of sound that makes you turn around even if you’re trying to ignore him.

“I’m serious,” I say.

“I know.” He shrugs. “So am I.”

I should walk away. I should push past him and hide in the back of the classroom until the bell rings. But instead, I ask, “Why do you care?”

His jaw tightens, and for a second, I think he won’t answer.

“I don’t know yet,” he says.

And that’s somehow worse than if he’d given me some fake, charming answer.

Because it’s real.

The first thing you should know about small towns is this: they never forget.

By lunch, I hear my name at least ten times. I feel eyes on my back. Whispers near the lockers. Half-finished stories left hanging in the air.

“She’s weird.”

“She’s sad.”

“Something’s off about her.”

They’re not wrong.

But it still makes me want to scream.

Instead, I go to the library again.

I sit in the same corner. I open my sketchbook. I try to draw something calm—a tree, maybe. A leaf.

But my hand moves faster than I expect. My pencil drags shadows. Rough edges. Eyes in the dark.

“Hey.”

I slam the book shut.

Jace stands near the bookshelf, a half-eaten protein bar in his hand. “You always draw like someone’s chasing you?”

I blink at him. “You always sneak up on people?”

“I walked in. You didn’t hear me.”

I didn’t. And that bothers me.

He sits down without asking. His leg bounces under the table like he can’t sit still for long.

“Why are you here?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I don’t know. You make the silence feel less loud.”

That shouldn’t make sense. But it does.

I watch him for a long moment. His hair is still damp from practice, falling into his eyes. There’s a tiny cut near his eyebrow, probably from a puck or a fight.

“Don’t your friends think you’re weird for talking to me?”

He tilts his head. “Probably.”

“Then why do it?”

“Maybe I like weird.”

That makes me laugh—just a little. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“Not yet,” he says.

And that word—yet—sticks to the walls of my chest.

Later, after school, I find a note inside my locker. Folded three times, no name. Just ink on paper.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

My hands go cold. I look around the hallway, but it’s mostly empty.

No one’s looking at me.

But someone was.

“Are you okay?” Jace asks the next morning, catching up with me outside the science building.

I keep walking. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’re shaking.”

I clench my fists. “It’s cold.”

He falls into step beside me. “I know someone left a note.”

I stop. Turn. “How do you know?”

“I saw you read it. I saw your face.”

I chew on the inside of my cheek. “It was nothing.”

“You’re lying.”

I say nothing.

He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a crumpled scrap of paper.

Another note.

I take it.

“Some truths are better buried.”

There’s no name. No handwriting I recognize.

I swallow. “Where did you find this?”

“My gear bag. This morning.”

I stare at the words, feeling something sharp crawl up my spine.

“What is this?” I whisper.

“I don’t know,” he says. “But I think someone’s trying to scare you.”

I hand it back. “It’s working.”

I don’t tell Aunt Moira. She already looks at me like I’m a cracked plate on her shelf—too fragile to be useful, too guilty to throw away.

I sit in the dark in my room instead. My window is open. The wind whistles through it like a warning.

I try to sleep, but I keep hearing Jace’s voice.

“I think someone’s trying to scare you.”

And then I wonder…

What if they already did?

What if I left something behind—and it followed?

The next day, we have gym class together.

We’re paired for a trust-building exercise. Which is ironic, considering I don’t trust anyone.

“Catch me,” I say flatly, crossing my arms.

“You’re supposed to fall first,” Jace says.

“I don’t fall for people.”

He grins. “Now that was a line.”

“Not a line,” I mutter. “A fact.”

He doesn’t tease me for it. Instead, he steps closer. “Lena. You can trust me.”

I look him in the eyes. “What if I don’t want to?”

He catches my stare and holds it. “Then I’ll wait.”

The teacher blows the whistle. We’re supposed to switch partners, but I don’t move.

Neither does Jace.

By the time school ends, I’m exhausted. Not from classes, but from pretending I don’t feel the weight of eyes or the memory of a hand over my mouth or the silence that followed.

I take the long way home. Through the back roads. Past the woods.

I know I shouldn’t.

But something draws me there.

Something I can’t name.

I step off the path, just far enough to hear nothing but trees.

And that’s when I see it.

A single page.

Pinned to a tree.

I don’t want to read it. But I do.

The handwriting is messier this time. Like it was written in a hurry.

“Stop talking to Jace Morgan. Some people disappear for less.”

I fold the paper, put it in my pocket, and walk faster.

But the wind changes behind me.

And somewhere between one heartbeat and the next…

I realize I’m not alone.