(Eden)
Morning in Raven Hollow always began with mist. It clung to the roofs and tree limbs like memory, soft and insistent. From her upstairs window Eden could see Main Street being dressed for the Valentine Festival: strings of paper lanterns, crimson banners curling in the damp wind, the faint pulse of jazz from a record player somewhere below.
She had promised the mayor's wife she would sing tonight—"just one song," she'd said—but now, watching the fog drift, she wasn't sure she could. Her voice had been silent for months, maybe years in truth.
The burned letter lay on the windowsill beside her coffee cup. Its edges had curled inward overnight, as if trying to hide its words again.
She turned it over once more. To my Valentine… forgive the promise I could not keep.
The ink bled faintly where the paper had warped. Every time she read it, she felt an ache she couldn't name, as though the apology was meant for her.
A car engine rumbled outside. Malcolm's truck.
He parked across the street and unloaded a roll of cables and a small sound board. He looked up just once, met her gaze through the mist, and gave the smallest nod. She felt it through her ribs.
By noon the square smelled of fried dough and roasted nuts. Kids ran between the booths; women hung heart-shaped garlands on the railings. The church bell rang every hour, reminding everyone what day was coming.
Eden tuned her guitar behind the stage curtain, hands trembling.
"Still remember how?" Malcolm's voice came from behind her.
She smiled without turning. "I never forgot. I just… stopped."
He stepped closer, the scent of cedar and cold air following him. "You stop breathing long enough, you forget what air feels like."
She looked back at him then, and for a heartbeat the noise of the festival dimmed.
"You fixed the speaker cables?" she asked.
He nodded. "And the mic stand. You'll sound clear tonight."
"Assuming I don't choke."
He handed her a small red ribbon. "Tie this to the headstock. My grandmother used to say it keeps songs from breaking."
Eeden laughed softly. "Superstition?"
"Tradition." He met her eyes. "Raven Hollow has a few worth keeping."
(Malcolm)
He stayed near the sound booth while the festival began. The first band played upbeat numbers, the kind that kept people from noticing how cold it was. But he wasn't listening; his gaze kept drifting to the side stage curtain where she waited.
The lanterns had begun to glow against the darkening sky, each one mirrored in the puddles along the street. When the emcee finally called her name, the crowd quieted.
Eden stepped out carrying her guitar, black curls haloed by the orange light. For a moment she hesitated, eyes scanning the audience as if searching for something she'd lost. Then she began to play.
Her voice was lower than he expected, raw around the edges, but it held the kind of beauty that comes from surviving silence. The song—some half-forgotten blues number—rolled through the square like smoke.
He watched the townspeople sway, watched the older ones glance at each other with recognition. There was history in that melody.
Halfway through, a gust of wind slipped down the street. The lanterns flickered blue for an instant—every single one. A murmur rippled through the crowd.
Eeden didn't stop singing. She simply lifted her chin, eyes fixed on the far horizon, and finished the song as if nothing had changed.
When the final chord faded, the crowd erupted. But Malcolm felt none of the release they did. That flicker—the blue light—had been real. He'd seen it once before, years ago, the night of the fire.
He pushed through the crowd toward the stage, but by the time he reached it she was gone.
(Eden)
She'd slipped away behind the church, guitar still in hand, heart pounding. The blue light had shimmered around the lanterns like breath on glass.
Footsteps followed.
"Eeden." His voice was low but urgent.
She turned. Malcolm was there, breath misting in the cold.
"You saw it too," he said.
She nodded. "What does it mean?"
He looked toward the square, where people still danced beneath the red lanterns that now glowed a strange violet hue. "It means the story's waking up again."
"What story?"
He hesitated, then stepped closer. "The one that burned this town once before."
A gust of wind carried the scent of rain and smoke between them.
For a moment neither spoke. Then she said quietly, "Then I guess we'd better learn how it ends."
He met her gaze, and for the first time she saw not the stoic craftsman but the man beneath—the one who'd lost something in that fire.
"Maybe," he said, "we're already part of it."