Upstairs, I didn't open my textbook. I retrieved the old photograph.
My final monologue, serious and determined: They lied. Not about everything, but about the important part. They weren't just sad; they were terrified. The story of the 'unstable fiancé' was too neat, too perfect. They gave me a random story to hide the fact that this entire thing is personal and connected to me. A random story to make me think it was just a coincidence.
I ran my thumb over the elegant script on the back: "The Observer, 1947."
My first step wouldn't be to google "man with green eyes and no shadow." That's what a distracted girl would do. A determined investigator, one whose parents were actively lying to her, would start with the simplest, least traceable clue: Grandma Rose's past.
I slipped the photo into the empty textbook slot in my backpack. I was going to find out where my grandmother came from, what life was like in 1947, and what kind of "society" used a twisted metal wreath as its symbol. I was going to find the real story behind the Observer. The algebra could wait.
My head was spinning with competing narratives. On one side, there was my parents' well-constructed story: a tragic, dramatic, but ultimately random story about a mentally unstable ex-fiancé obsessed with the occult. It made sense; it gave a logical, albeit sad, explanation for the green eyes and the mysterious pin. It allowed me to believe my parents and, frankly, it was the easiest path. It meant I could relax and go back to being a normal teenager worrying about polynomial functions instead of ancient conspiracies.
My internal monologue: Okay, Luna. Be rational. The universe does not revolve around your dreams. The most logical explanation is a traumatic dream mixed with an old, emotional family secret. It's not my job to solve my dead grandma's romantic drama. I'm fourteen! I need a high-school diploma, not a private investigator's license. I should leave everything to destiny.
But then, the quiet voice in my gut, my relentless intuition, spoke up. They were terrified. Their eyes didn't lie, even if their words did. The story was too clean. Why would a 'crazy ex' suddenly pop up on a fence post near my school, written in my grandmother's hand?
This isn't just a story; it's a summons.
I paced my room, rubbing the spot on my jeans where the photograph was tucked. I was trapped in a dilemma—the logic of self-preservation versus the pull of a frightening truth.
"How am I even supposed to find answers?" I muttered, dropping onto my bed. "I don't have a time machine. I can't just walk up to someone and ask, 'Excuse me, are you part of an ancient society that uses twisted metal wreaths?'"
The thought of disappointing my parents, of making them worry more by digging where they explicitly told me not to, weighed on me. They were trying to protect me. Maybe their version of the truth, even if incomplete, was the safest version.
I stared at my Algebra textbook, its spine still crisp. The equations were a comfortable, predictable challenge. They had rules, solutions, and no horrifying empty green eyes.
With a final, exhausting sigh, I gave in to logic and fatigue. "Fine," I told the silent room. "My intuition is going to take a nap."
I pulled out my book, flipped it open to the dreaded section on logarithms, and forced myself to focus on the black ink on the white page. I tried my best to move aside those thoughts, reciting formulas silently until the tension in my shoulders eased. The sheer banality of studying for my exams was the perfect antidote to conspiracy. Eventually, the steady rhythm of concentration worked. My eyelids grew heavy. I dropped the book on my chest and drifted off, my last conscious thought a silent prayer that the only thing waiting for me in the dark would be a boring, algebra-free sleep.