Chapter Text
Rory woke up on stone.
Not the smooth kind it was cracked, uneven, damp with something that smells almost nostalgic.
When she tried to push herself up, moss pressed cold and slick into her palms. Her arms shook. She managed half a rise before her knees gave out and she dropped back down with a breathless grunt, her body suddenly heavy, as if the air itself had weight.
Trees loom in the mist, tall and crooked, their branches tangled like they’ve grown around something instead of toward the sky. Human silhouettes rise between them, too straight, too still. Stone figures half-buried in vines, faces worn down by time.
Rory’s pulse kicked hard.
She lifted one arm slowly, waving it through the air, half-expecting resistance—pressure. When nothing stopped her, she drew in a shaky breath and forced herself upright, the sound of movement echoing strangely, like the forest were to be listening.
The grass slopes unevenly beneath her socks. Every step feels watched, though she can’t see anything watching her
“Hello?” she calls unsure. The word doesn’t travel far. It sinks into the fog and disappears like dropping a coin into deep water. Something moved in response, not close, not rushing. Just… shifting as if whatever it was had been waiting for her to speak.
Rory stepped back, heart hammering, That was when the wrongness of the place finally settled into her bones, there were no birds, no insects and no wind, just her breathing and the faint scrape of stone against stone somewhere she can’t see.
A voice reaches for her from somewhere beyond. It’s trying to press through, but the sound is thick, like someone speaking underwater. The closer the voice leans, the fuzzier it becomes. “-keep… it close… not yet- don't lose…” a syllable slides over the edge of comprehension and disappears.
The pressure intensified, the voice breaking apart as if it were being pulled backward even as it strained forward.
Rory shook her head, pressing her hands over her ears. “I-” the words tangled in her throat and died there. Her mouth moved. No sound came out.
“child..-hide..don’t.. never let- him- ”
The mist thickened abruptly, curling in on itself, stinging her eyes until tears burned hot and sudden, blurring the shapes around her. The trees seemed closer now..no, not closer—leaning. Bushes crept inward at the edges of her vision, branches knitting together, closing gaps that hadn’t been closed before.
The scrape of stone grew louder.
Rory stumbled back, breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Her heel caught on uneven ground-
Light exploded.
White and blinding, tearing through the fog like a blade. The ground vanished beneath her feet, the sensation of falling ripping the breath from her lungs as the world collapsed inward. For one impossible heartbeat, she felt weightless.
Then everything broke apart.
And Rory woke up screaming.
She bolted upright, hands clawing at the sheets, lungs burning like she’d been holding her breath underwater. For a second, she didn’t know where she was. The dark pressed in too close. Shadows clung to the corners of the room like they hadn’t quite let go of her yet. But then the familiar shapes grounded her.
Her desk.
The crooked band poster on the wall.
The half-open closet door with the squeaky hinge she never bothered fixing.
Home.
She sucked in a shaky breath. Then another.
Her heart was still racing, pounding hard enough that she could feel it in her throat. Sweat cooled rapidly against her skin, leaving her chilled despite the blankets twisted around her legs.
“…Just a dream,” she whispered. The words felt thin. Unconvincing.
Rory dragged a hand down her face and glanced instinctively to her bedside table.
The hair clip lay exactly where she’d left it. Gold, shaped like a small, sun with delicate wing-like curves at its edges. Completely ordinary at a glance. She never slept without it nearby, never farther than arm’s reach. One meter give or take. She didn’t know why she’d learned that rule so young. Seeing it there loosened something tight in her chest.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, feet touching the cool hardwood floor. The room smelled faintly of laundry detergent. Normal smells. Safe smells. Her hands were still trembling.
When she stood, a familiar sensation stirred at her ankles—subtle, persistent. Like forgetting you’re wearing socks and bracing for a cold floor that never comes. Like the stories amputees tell, of nerves remembering something that isn’t supposed to be there anymore.
A phantom feeling which didn’t fade.
It never did.
She hadn’t told anyone. She’d learned early that some things were easier to live with when they stayed unnamed.
She crossed the room and pushed the curtain aside just enough to peek out the window. Morning pressed back at her, the streetlamp outside hummed softly, its dim light pooling on wet pavement. No mist, no statues, no impossible silence.
Yet the echo of that voice lingered, scraping at the back of her thoughts.
Keep it close.
Don't lose it.
Never let him.
“What does that even mean?” she asked the empty room but no answer came, no pressure, no reaching. Whatever had tried to speak to her was gone again, cut off cleanly, like a call dropped mid-sentence. Rory turned back toward the bed, picked up the hair clip, and held it tightly in her fist. It was warm. Reassuring. Solid in a way the dream hadn’t been.
She exhaled slowly, trying to shake off the last tremors of the dream. Her fingers lingered on the hair clip, tracing its edges, feeling the tiny engraved lines along the wings. She slid it into her hair, just above her ear, letting it catch the morning light. The motion felt grounding, like pressing a tiny anchor into herself.
Rory shivered as she pulled on black flare jeans and an oversized purple sweater, sleeves swallowing her hands. She laced up her worn red Converse, snapped on her spiked bracelets, and finished with a quick sweep of eyeliner. By the time she was done, the phantom feeling at her ankles fortunately had faded to a dull hum.
She studied herself in the mirror, tilted her head. Hair clipped, outfit ready, accessories in place.
Rory swallowed and squared her shoulders. Whatever just happened, she’d figure it out. One step at a time.
Easing down the stairs, the step creaking beneath her weight. The apartment smelled of coffee and warm bread, faintly sweet with cinnamon. “Morning,” she said, voice rough from waking.
Her mom, Ella Lestari, looked up from the kitchen counter where she was buttering a slice of bread. Her hair was tied back in a messy bun, a warm smile plastered on her face.
“Morning, Ror,” she said, voice light and casual.
Rory slid into the chair at the breakfast nook. The table smelled of toasted bread, rich and yeasty. Ella set a small jar of bramble jam beside her plate, the deep purple glinting in the morning light.
“Bramble,” Rory said with a small grin, spooning some onto her toast. Sweet and tart, sticky on her fingers.
Ella watched, pretending to scroll through her tablet, calm and unconcerned. She didn’t comment on Rory’s pale cheeks or the lingering tremor in her hands. She didn’t ask if the dream had been one of those dreams. But Rory caught the glint of something in her eyes, a flicker of fear she hid just beneath the surface.
Rory finished the toast quickly, licking the last smear of jam from her fingers, and leaned forward to kiss her mom on the cheek. “Love you,” she said softly.
Ella’s lips pressed to her daughter’s forehead in return. “Love you too,” she said. Normal. Calm. Controlled.
Rory grabbed her headphones from the counter, slinging them over her neck, and pulled her backpack onto her shoulder. Heavy with books, notebooks, pens.
“You heading to school?” Ella asked casually, like the question wasn’t loaded with all the things she knew.
“Yeah,” Rory said, tugging her sweater up around her neck, trying for a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Ella nodded, then she paused, just for a heartbeat, softening her tone ever so slightly. “Have fun, Ror. And… stay safe.”
Rory smirked, adjusting her backpack straps. “I’ll be fine,” she said lightly, hiding the faint unease of her mom’s tone.
She stepped out into the city of Las Vegas. The morning sun reflected off glass towers, the distant hum of traffic buzzing in her ears, the smell of street food mingling with asphalt. She walked down the sidewalk, backpack bouncing, headphones snug over her ears, listening to “Just Like Heaven” from The Cure.
The bus ride was loud.
Rory took the seat near the back and dropped her backpack between her shoes.
Las Vegas blurred past the window in flashes of neon leftovers and early-morning exhaustion. The Strip looked half-awake, like the city itself was hungover.
By the time the bus screeched to a stop in front of West Horizon High, Rory was already tired of people.
The school squatted under the sun, beige and ugly in that practical way public buildings perfected. Students poured in from every direction, laughing, shouting, complaining and all other things teenagers do.
Rory adjusted the straps of her backpack and stepped off the bus.
Banners flapped lazily in the breeze STATE QUALIFIERS NEXT WEEK, her name printed across more than a few of them.
She ignored every single one yet heads turned anyway. It always happened like this: a subtle ripple of attention following her steps, whispers trailing behind like loose threads.
That’s her.
Track captain.
The weird one.
Rory looked down at her phone to check the time and kept walking, shoes scuffing against the pavement.
“Morning, Lestari.”
“Yo, track queen.”
Someone whistled as she passed. Rory didn’t look. Didn’t slow. Being head of the athletic team made people think they knew her, like speed equaled confidence, like medals translated into approachability.
It didn’t.
“Captain!”
She sighed and glanced over her shoulder just enough to acknowledge the voice. One of her newer team mates jogged over, nervousity radiating.
“Coach wants to know if you’re still running anchor tomorrow.”
Rory blinked. “Yeah.”
He laughed, uncertain. “Cool. Yeah. Cool.”
Inside, the hallways buzzed. Lockers slamming, voices overlapping, the sharp smell of cleaning chemicals barely masking sweat and perfume.
She stopped at her locker, twisting the dial without looking, muscle memory. Inside, notebooks sat neatly stacked beside a sketchbook plastered with peeling band stickers and started walking towards class.
First period: Languages.
The room buzzed with low conversation and chair legs scraping tile. Rory took her usual seat near the window, back corner, where she could see the sky and ignore everyone else.
“Alright, settle down,” Mr. Alvarez called. “Pop quiz.”
Groans rippled across the room.
Rory pulled out her pen, expression unchanged.
The paper slid onto her desk, today it was about Spanish.
She scanned it once.
Then started writing.
Her hand moved fast, fluid. No pauses. No hesitation. Declensions, translations, syntax- she didn’t even consciously think about it. The words felt right, like they belonged there. Like she was remembering instead of learning.
By the time most of the class was halfway through the first paragraph, Rory was done.
She leaned back in her chair, eyes drifting to the window. Outside, the flag fluttered lazily. A cloud passed overhead, briefly dimming the light.
“Rory,” Mr. Alvarez said from the front, squinting. “You finished?”
She slid the paper forward with two fingers. “Unless spanish changed overnight.”
He took it, scanning the paper over and over again. His brows shot up. “…Did you cheat?”
Rory deadpanned. “Bold accusation from a man who assigned this.”
A few snickers.
Mr. Alvarez sighed, rubbing his temple. “You could at least pretend this is challenging.”
She shrugged. “Where’s the fun in that?”
He waved her off, already resigned. “Just-.. read or draw or whatever you do back there.”
She pulled out her sketchbook.
Charcoal smudged her fingers as she worked, lines forming without conscious effort. Columns. Cracked stone.
She frowned slightly and turned the page.
At track practice, she ran laps that left her teammates staring.
“Are you even human?” someone panted.
Rory jogged backward, hands in her pockets. “Debatable.”
They laughed, unsure if she was joking.
Rory was cutting across the quad, sweat cooling on her skin, backpack slung loose over one shoulder. The sun was low enough now to stretch shadows long across the concrete. She had her headphones on again, volume low, brain half somewhere else.
That was when someone stepped into her path.
Then another.
Then another.
She stopped. Three of them. Seniors. Not athletes more adjacent to athletes. The kind who lingered near power without earning it. One leaned against a bench like he owned the space. Another smirked openly. The third’s eyes were already scanning her, sharp and curious.
“Wow,” the first one said. “The track star herself.”
Rory sighed and slid one headphone off. “You guys rehearsed that, or is this improv?” One of them laughed.
“See? This is why nobody likes you.”
“That’s not why,” Rory replied flatly. “But thank you for the feedback.”
She tried to step around them. The third one moved faster, too fast. His fingers snagged the edge of her hair—clink—and before Rory even registered what had happened, the weight at her temple was gone. Her stomach dropped.
“No,” she said, sharp and immediate. “Give that back.”
The boy held it up between his fingers, squinting at the gold clip. “This? What is this, some kind of cosplay thing?”
Her pulse slammed in her ears “Put. It. Back.”
“Oh, relaaax,” he said, grinning. Then-
The pressure hit, not pain at first.
Pressure.
Like the ground suddenly remembered her weight and decided to collect. It started at her ankles, a violent, crushing force, like someone had strapped concrete blocks to her legs and pulled. Her knees buckled instantly.
Rory gasped and dropped to one hand, vision blurring. It felt like holding a plank too long. Muscles screaming but multiplied, intensified, wrong. Like her body was trying to tear itself open from the inside.
“What the hell-” someone muttered.
Rory didn’t hear the rest. Her breath came in ragged bursts. The world tilted. Her ankles burned now, fire spreading up her calves, pressure turning sharp, unbearable.
“Give it back,” she choked, voice breaking for the first time in years. “Please-”
The boy’s grin faltered.
“Dude,” one of the others said. “She’s, like- freaking out.”
Rory shoved herself upright, staggering. Every step was agony, like walking on shattered glass buried deep beneath her skin.
She didn’t wait.
She ran.
The bathroom door slammed open, rattling the mirrors. Rory barely made it to the far stall before collapsing inside, kicking the door shut with her heel and locking it. She yanked off her shoes in a panic. They skidded uselessly across the tile.
“Oh my God… oh my God,” she gasped, slamming her head back against the stall wall from sheer shock. Pain flared across her skull. Sharp, grounding, useless.
“Shit- shit- shit- what the fuck-”
She slid down to the floor, nails scraping the tile, breath coming in jagged, panicked bursts.
Then, suddenly the pressure vanished.
A sound of a rip, then a woosh came from beneath her.
Feathers scattered across the floor.
Rory froze.
Her breath caught.
Slowly… she looked down.
White wings unfurled from her ankles through ripped socks. Not huge. Not fully spread. But unmistakable.
Clean, bright feathers trembling with every shuddering breath. Her heart slammed against her ribs so hard it hurt.
“No,” she whispered. “No… no no no- this can’t- this can’t be- what- ”
Footsteps echoed outside the stall, laughter. Voices, Rory clamped a hand over her mouth.
The dream slammed back into her head once again.
Keep it close.
Don't lose it.
Never let him.
End of chapter 1.