Elle
Friday drags.
The kind of morning that feels too slow, yet too aware of time.
I'm supposed to be halfway to Ridgeway by now; the community shelter, the literacy drive for children Damian had promised to volunteer for. But I'm still here, standing by the window. I check my phone for the fifth time in ten minutes. Still nothing. Just the same three missed calls from yesterday.
I scroll through them again, even though I already know who they're from. It doesn't help.
The clock on the wall says 10:30. He's late. An hour late.
I pull my hair into a ponytail and stare at the mirror. The volunteer shirt hangs loosely on me, the cotton soft against skin. Too soft for how tense I feel. The blue Ridgeway Hope logo looks brighter than it should. It's mocking, almost.
"Fine," I whisper to my reflection. "With or without him."
Still, I grab my phone again and tap Camila. She answers on the second ring, voice bright, quick.
"Heyy girl! What's up?"
"I'm good," I say. "I just wanted to ask... he's still at the office, isn't he?"
"Who?" she asks, absentmindedly. I could hear the ruffles of papers from her end.
"Dam..."
"Oh! I don't know. Haven't seen him all day," Cam says. "I've been downstairs all morning. The new pitch is chaos, half the team's surviving on caffeine and denial. But no, haven't seen him."
"Oh." The word feels small. "Thought maybe he got held up over there."
Cam hums, typing something in the background. "I remember now, he's supposed to go to that volunteer thing with you. Girl relax, maybe he's probably held up with work. He might still show."
"Yeah," I murmur. "Jeezzz... what am I even thinking. I'm out of here. Thank you girl."
She pauses. "You okay? You sound weird. Like you're half somewhere else."
I try to smile, even though she can't see it. "It's nothing."
"Elle," she says softly, like a warning.
I take a slow breath. "It's my visions."
That gets her attention. The noise on her end quiets.
"They've changed," I continue. "Since that night on the porch… they're not the same. I see things, but they cut off too soon. Like someone's turning the lights off halfway through. Sometimes I only see flashes. No meaning. Just… noise."
Cam doesn't speak for a while. Then, "That's not normal for you."
"I know." I walk to the window, my fingers pressing against the glass. The city outside blurs into shapes and motion, like I'm looking through a fog. "It's like something's blocking me. Or maybe I've lost it."
"Don't say that," Cam replies quickly. "You haven't lost anything. Maybe it's just your mind's way of protecting you. You've been through a lot lately."
I wish I could believe her. "Maybe."
Cam hesitates before changing the subject. "Have you made up your mind about your mom? About going this weekend?"
I freeze. The word Mom hangs heavy between us.
"She's been asking about you," Cam adds softly. "It's been years, Elle. Don't you think it's time?"
I don't answer. I just stare at the window, my reflection ghosted against the glass.
"Elle?"
"I don't know," I admit. "But I'll think about it."
Cam sighs. "Fine. If you want, I'll come with you. I'll need the distraction."
That makes me smile. "You'd really do that?"
"Obviously. Someone's got to keep you from bolting halfway there."
"Thanks," I whisper.
"Anytime, have fun with your thing. I have to go back to work," she says, and we hang up.
The room feels quieter when she's gone.
I stare at my phone one last time. Still no message. Then I grab my keys and sling my tote over my shoulder.
The air outside is warm and heavy, it smells faintly like rain even when the sky's clear. I lock the door and head down the steps.
If Damian shows up, good.
If he doesn't…
I tighten my grip on the phone and keep walking.
But as I reach the gate, the screen lights up; just the faint glow of the home screen. No message. Just my reflection staring back.
For a second, I could swear I hear his voice in my head.
The memory flickers and fades before I can catch it.
And just like that, it's gone. Like all the other visions lately.
*****
The Ridgeway Shelter smells like paper, paint and sugar cookies. Kids run everywhere; tiny feet thudding on the floor, crayons rolling off tables, laughter bouncing off the painted walls. Someone's playing the guitar in the next room. A clumsy, happy tune. It doesn't fit the heaviness in my chest.
I've been here two hours.
Helping them draw, read, stack supplies. Smiling when I should.
A girl with pigtails tug at my sleeve, and holds up a book upside down.
"Read this one," she says.
I smile, even though my chest feels hollow. "Sure."
Her name is Lila. She sits cross-legged on the mat while I read about a bear who can't find his way home. The words blur sometimes, but I keep reading, voice low and steady. Every few sentences, I glance at the door. Maybe he'll still come.
He promised he would.
I even imagined what he'd wear.
Stupid.
A boy spills a jar of glue nearby, spilling across the table. Everyone scrambles. I kneel to help, the smell sharp and sweet. My hand brushes the floor, and something hits me.
A flash.
White light.
A heartbeat.
Someone gasping for air.
Glass shattering.
Then it's gone.
I blink, breath caught in my throat.
Lila stares at me, wide-eyed. "Are you okay, miss?"
I force a smile. "Yeah. Just tired."
But my hands won't stop shaking.
By the time the event ends, I'm drained. My shirt smells of paint and glue. The kids wave goodbye, and I wave back, smiling like it doesn't hurt.
The walk home feels longer than usual. Every passing car sounds like someone calling my name. When I reach my building, my fingers are cold.
Inside, I drop my bag, kick off my shoes, and collapse on the couch. The ceiling fan hums softly above me. Sleep drags me under before I can fight it.
*****
The dream starts with silence. The type of silence that warns you to run.
I'm standing in a garden. The sky is dark green. The air smells like rain. The grass brushes my knees.
There are stones everywhere, half-buried in the earth.
Graves.
I take a step forward.
Each stone I pass has a name I don't know. The further I walk, the more the letters fade, until only one stands out.
Camila Moore.
My heart stutters.
No. That's impossible.
I kneel. Dirt presses cold against my skin. Beneath her, numbers are carved into the stone.
Born: 1999. Died: 2026.
Next year.
Three months from now.
The letters glow faintly, like the ground is breathing.
I try to move, to step back but my feet won't obey.
I hear a whisper.
I turn. A woman stands behind the tomb, her body blurred by fog.
Her hands are clasped and her voice familiar.
"Mom?"
She lifts her head. Her face flickers in and out.
"You can still change it, Firefly," she says softly. "Come home."
The sky rips open and rain falls like never before. Then I'm falling.
*****
I jolt awake, gasping. My shirt is soaked in sweat. The room's dark, and the ceiling fan's still spinning.
This wasn't just a dream. It was a warning.
Before the fear fades, I'm already moving.
Pulling open drawers. Grabbing whatever I can. Jeans, a sweater, my charger, keys. My hands shake so badly I drop my phone twice.
I stop for one second. Stare at the mirror. Then I remember; Camila promised to come with me if I ever changed my mind.
I grab the phone and call her, pacing as it rings.
"Pick up, Cam," I whisper. "Come on, pick up."
No answer. Voicemail. I hang up and try again.
Still nothing.
"Cam, it's me," I say, voice trembling. "You need to come home. Now. We're leaving tonight. Just... please call me when you get this."
I set the phone down, my pulse racing.
I catch my reflection in the mirror, again. I look pale, eyes wide, wild.
"Three months," I whisper to myself. "Not if I can help it."
I zip the bag and sit on the bed, waiting for her.