CHAPTER TWO
memories

I began to regret forcing my presence into Forks by the second week. The quiet isolation of Canada had dulled my memory of human small-mindedness, and though I'd missed their company, however superficial, the gossip was a weight I hadn't anticipated. Everywhere I went, whispers clung to me like a shadow, soft yet sharp, nibbling at the nape of my neck. To them, I might have seemed invisible, but the words slipped into my ears regardless, impossible to ignore.

At noon, the sun hung high but vanished by four, swallowed by dense clouds that seemed to settle permanently over the town. Even the dampness, a persistent dampness that coated the air like a thin veil, failed to deter the townsfolk. By evening, the streets swelled with more people than seemed plausible for a town of barely three thousand souls. They moved through the grey haze as if it were home, because it was.

Trying to convince myself that this was as good a place as any, I settled on a familiar spot beside the woods, leaning against the worn boot of my car. The trees here outnumbered the people, thick and moss-draped, their ancient bark whispering secrets only I seemed attuned to. It had become my refuge.

I heard footsteps before I saw them: two girls, weaving slowly between trunks, voices light and trivial, words drifting on the breeze. Human, no older than seventeen, caught in the endless loop of gossip about boys and clothes. The one nearest was short, with sharp features- dark brown hair framing a face set with an arrogant tilt of her chin. I imagined a brittle personality, fragile beneath her hauteur. Her companion, taller, with light brown curls tangled by the leaves of the forest, brought up the rear, slower, quieter.

They slowed near me, eyes flickering briefly to my car but not to me. They moved on, leaving a trace behind- warm, sweet scent that made my arms ache and my skin crawl with hunger. Young blood.

Hunger was a constant companion I'd long tried to keep at bay. Ten days without feeding had stretched my limits; I was more fragile than others like me. New places stirred a resistance to the natural call, but the hunger always returned, relentless and raw. I wondered how dark my eyes had grown under the strain.

closed my eyes and pressed my head back against the cool metal of the car. The trees swayed overhead, whispering things I refused to listen to. I forced my attention back to the book cradled in my hands, one of three precious volumes I'd carried for centuries. They were gifts from a friend long gone, each cover embossed with delicate leatherwork that had somehow survived the ravages of time. The brittle pages threatened to crumble beneath my touch, but I handled them carefully. These books were my tether to the past, a reminder of who I had been before everything changed.

The words blurred; my mind faltered, pulled between the book and the insistent hunger clawing beneath my ribs. Then, a slip of paper fluttered free, drifting down like a faded leaf. I caught it, fingers trembling as I smoothed the yellowed, creased page.

The charcoal lines were smudged, worn by time, but the image remained: flowing hair, a gaze cold and harsh, a smile too complex for the simple pencil strokes. The drawing was unfinished, yet it captured something truer than any mirror could. Somehow, this sketch was more me than the reflection I wore now. And it was Thomas who had drawn it, his vision of me, before everything fell apart.

Why had I kept it? The rawness of the lines, the spark of life trapped on paper, sparked a flicker of envy deep in my chest. The figure was a stranger, but somehow more alive than I felt. Even the scribbled signature in the corner, tight and urgent, stirred conflicting emotions- anger, longing, sorrow- all tangled together.

Seeing it again was like catching sight of someone I used to be and no longer recognised. Someone lighter. Someone warm.

I slipped the paper back into the book, closing the cover with a snap. Tucking it beneath the threadbare blanket, I rose quickly, eager to move, to break the stillness. The forest floor should have crunched beneath my feet, but as always, my steps were silent, ghostlike. They always were.

And still the sketch stayed with me, like a heartbeat I no longer had.

The fog was thinning when I returned to the house, curling off the fields like breath drawn back into a mouth. Forks had gone quiet in its slow, sodden way. Damp streets, clouded windows, doors already shut for the night. I didn't expect to see anyone as I pushed the gate open and stepped up the narrow walk, trailing mist behind me like a hem.

Mrs. Rochester had left the porch light on. A faint, flickering yellow bulb. It didn't do much to cut the evening gloom, but it gave the old house a shape in the dark, like a lighthouse blinking through fog. I didn't make a sound when I opened the door.

Inside, it was still. The quiet pressed against my skin.

Then I heard it- not footsteps, not speech, just the delicate rhythmic scrape of metal against wood. Like something being coaxed back into usefulness.

I slowed.

The sitting room door was cracked open, and through it, I saw him.

Crouched beside a chair with one of its legs disassembled. The soft amber of a lamp haloed his figure. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow. One hand braced the wood while the other tightened a brass screw into place. He didn't notice me at first—or at least he didn't turn his head. There was something reverent in the way he worked. Not exacting. Just quiet. Like he trusted the chair to remember itself.

I was halfway past the room when he spoke.

"Didn't mean to startle you."

His voice didn't carry so much as it settled. Low, even. No nerves, no edge. Just certainty in sound.

I turned. "You didn't."

He looked up then. Only briefly. His eyes flicked across my face, like a hand pressed against a windowpane. Not intrusive. Just... present.

"You're quieter than the rain," he said, returning to the screw.

I wasn't sure what to say to that.

"You fix everything in this house?" I asked instead, voice careful.

"I try." A pause. Then: "Not everything wants fixing."

A small smile threatened the corner of his mouth. It didn't reach his eyes, which were sharp in a way that didn't match the softness of his face.

He stood, brushing his hands against his trousers. The wood creaked as if in protest. He tested the leg, shifting weight against it. Whatever he had done, it held.

"Some things just like to be left alone," he said, as if finishing a thought I hadn't asked.

I watched him gather his tools. A worn cloth roll, snapped shut with leather straps. I didn't move from the doorway.

"You're not local."

It wasn't a question.

I met his gaze, startled despite myself. "No," I said.

"Didn't think so."

He didn't elaborate. But something about the way he said it, not suspicious, just matter-of-fact, set me slightly on edge.

My fingers traced the cracked plaster along the edge of the mantlepiece, as if it might tell me some forgotten story. A faded photograph sat crooked on the shelf, its edges worn and softened by time. I found myself staring longer than I intended, drawn to the quiet weight of history pressed into the frame.

I caught him watching me, his eyes curious but calm. He said quietly, "People around here don't look through things the way you do."

I narrowed my eyes. "And how do I look through things?"

"Like they're not solid."

The room had grown quieter, though the house still creaked faintly, expanding or settling with the cold. He didn't seem in a rush to leave. Neither was I, though I wasn't sure why.

"Maybe I'm just nosy," I said.

"No." He gave a slow shake of his head. "Just quiet. That's different."

His expression didn't change. But I felt something shift in the air, like a current just beneath the surface. I wasn't used to people noticing things about me. Certainly not things I hadn't offered.

He set the chair upright and stepped back. The room returned to stillness around him, and I couldn't help but feel as though I had wandered into someone else's memory.

"You staying long?" he asked finally.

I hesitated. "Don't know yet."

He nodded like that answer didn't surprise him. Then:

"If you need anything fixed, leave it by the door."

I didn't thank him. I wasn't sure I could speak.

Instead I turned, slowly, and walked back toward the stairs. The boards didn't creak under my feet.

Halfway up, I paused.

"You always fix things at night?" I asked, not turning around.

A breath, and then:

"It's the only time they don't resist."

I wasn't sure if he meant the furniture.

In my room, the light of the hallway slipped across the floor like spilt gold. I sat on the bed, unmoving, while the weight of the interaction settled over me.

He hadn't asked who I was. Where I was from. He hadn't stared. But he had seen me. I felt it still, lingering in my bones, just under the skin. As if his gaze had left fingerprints. As if his voice had placed something in my chest I couldn't remove.

I pressed my hand to my sternum, feeling for it. Nothing. Of course.

Just me, and the hum of the house, and the paper still folded deep in my book.