Carrie stood in front of the mirror.
The clothes felt strange on her body—not uncomfortable, just unfamiliar. A mix of Clara's old things and Casey's. A soft sweater that hung a little loose. Jeans that actually fit. Nothing tight. Nothing sharp.
Nothing meant to punish her for existing.
Her prom dress lay folded in the sink behind her, dark with dried blood. She didn't look at it.
Instead, she looked at herself.
Clara had brushed her hair differently. Not pulled tight. Not hidden. Just… loose, framing her face. It felt wrong in a way that made her chest ache.
[Insert image here]
She lifted a hand and touched the sleeve.
Her mother would never have allowed this.
Too soft.
Too casual.
Too proud.
Carrie swallowed.
She leaned closer to the mirror, studying her reflection like it might disappear if she didn't pay attention. The girl staring back looked… normal. Tired. Pale. But not sinful.
Not broken.
Her fingers trembled as she adjusted the collar.
"God doesn't like vanity," her mother's voice whispered from memory.
Carrie flinched.
Then—slowly—she straightened.
The voice didn't come again.
She met her own eyes in the mirror, really looked at them, and for the first time she didn't feel like she needed to look away.
"…She'd hate this," Carrie whispered.
The thought scared her.
The relief scared her more.
There was a soft knock at the door.
"Carrie?" Clara's voice. Gentle. "You okay?"
Carrie took a breath.
"I think so," she said.
The door opened just a crack. Clara peeked in, then smiled when she saw her.
"There you are," she said. "Looks good on you."
Carrie hesitated. "It's not… wrong?"
Clara shook her head immediately. "No. It's you."
That did it.
Carrie's eyes burned, but she didn't cry this time.
She just nodded.
Down the hall, unseen, Casey paused for half a second—long enough to register that the house felt quieter than it had earlier.
Then he kept walking.
Some battles didn't need witnesses.
And some victories were as simple as a girl looking in a mirror and not hating what she saw.
Meanwhile, downstairs—
William sat on the couch, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the television.
"…If you have seen this girl, please contact local authorities immediately."
Carrie's face filled the screen.
The photo was old. School picture. Forced smile. Too neat.
Cut to another shot—her mother, crying into a handkerchief, eyes red, voice shaking as she spoke about her missing child.
William's jaw tightened.
"From first-hand testimony," the reporter continued, "the girl was allegedly dragged into the woods by a dark-skinned boy—"
The image changed.
Blurry. Grainy. Two figures running. One unmistakably Casey.
William didn't swear. Didn't move.
He simply reached for the remote and switched the channel to sports just as footsteps sounded on the stairs.
The crowd noise filled the room.
"Morning," William said calmly.
Carrie stepped into the living room beside Clara.
She froze.
Her eyes flicked to the TV. To the moving players. The volume turned just a little too loud.
She knew.
Clara's hand rested lightly on her shoulder. Steady. Reassuring.
Casey came down last, hoodie pulled on, hair still messy. He glanced at the screen, then at his father.
Their eyes met.
Nothing was said.
William leaned back into the couch. "Breakfast'll be ready in ten."
Carrie swallowed. "They're… looking for me."
William nodded once. "Yeah."
Her fingers curled into the sleeve of her sweater. "Am I in trouble?"
William finally looked at her properly.
"No," he said. Firm. Absolute. "You're a kid who needed help."
He turned back to the TV like the matter was settled.
Casey grabbed an apple from the counter.
"See?" he said lightly. "Told you. Normal house."
Carrie almost smiled.
Outside, a news van drove slowly past the edge of the forest road.
It didn't stop.
And in a quiet living room surrounded by things that went bump in the night, a hunted girl stood safely out in the open—for once.
The kitchen smelled like eggs and toast.
Real food. Not canned. Not burned. Not prayed over.
William stood at the stove, flipping something in a pan with practised ease. Clara moved around him, setting plates on the table, humming softly under her breath.
The radio played low in the background. Weather. Traffic. Nothing important.
Cujo lay sprawled across the kitchen floor, massive head resting on his paws, tail thumping lazily whenever someone walked past. He lifted his head just long enough to sniff at Carrie's ankle, then settled back down with a satisfied huff.
Carrie froze.
"He… he won't—?"
"He drools," Clara said. "That's about it."
Cujo rolled onto his back, paws in the air, tail wagging harder.
Casey nudged him with his foot. "You're embarrassing yourself."
Cujo sneezed.
Carrie laughed before she could stop herself.
The sound surprised her.
She clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide, like she was waiting for someone to yell at her for it.
No one did.
William slid a plate in front of her. Scrambled eggs. Toast. A bit of fruit on the side.
"Eat," he said simply.
Carrie stared at the plate. "I didn't— I didn't pray."
William shrugged. "Food still works."
She hesitated, then took a bite.
It was warm.
Her shoulders loosened a fraction.
Casey dropped into the chair across from her, already halfway through his breakfast. "So," he said around a mouthful, "today's agenda is nothing exploding."
Clara shot him a look. "Don't tempt it."
Cujo's tail thumped again, knocking lightly against the cabinet.
Carrie watched them—really watched them. The way they moved around each other. The easy silence. The lack of fear.
"This is…" she started, then stopped.
Clara smiled at her. "Different?"
Carrie nodded. "Quiet."
William raised his mug. "Quiet never lasts."
Almost on cue, the radio crackled.
"…breaking news out of Chamberlain—"
Casey paused mid-bite.
Clara's smile faded just a touch.
William turned the volume up one notch.
Cujo's ears perked.
Carrie's stomach tightened.
The day had begun.
Meanwhile, somewhere else—
A radio crackled in the background.
"…local reports confirm multiple children missing across nearby to—"
Click.
The sound was cut off.
Sue Snell sat cross-legged on the floor, an old school yearbook spread open in front of her. Her curly brown hair fell into her face as she flipped pages faster now, eyes sharp, focused.
[Insert image of Sue Snell]
"Come on… come on," she muttered. "I know I've seen that boy somewhere."
She stopped, flipped back, and scanned again.
Nothing.
Beside her, Tommy Ross shifted on the couch. A white bandage wrapped around his head, the result of a metal bucket and very bad timing. He still looked like a jock—broad shoulders, varsity jacket tossed over a chair—but there was something quieter about him now.
"So?" he asked. "Find anything?"
[Insert images of Tommy]
Sue shook her head, annoyed. "No. How hard is it to find a dark-skinned kid in this yearbook?"
Tommy blinked.
"…Did you even get a good look at him?"
Sue looked up at him. "Hard to miss someone like that."
Tommy frowned. "That's kind of racist."
Sue shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. "Shut up, Tommy."
He held up his hands. "Just saying."
Sue sighed, rubbed her temples, then snapped the book shut.
"Okay. Not this one," she said. "Time to check last year's."
She reached for another yearbook, older, more worn.
Sue flipped through the second yearbook, slower this time.
Her fingers stopped.
"There," she said. "Found it."
Tommy leaned forward. "Found what?"
Sue tapped the page.
"Casey Afton," she read. "New student. Joined halfway through the year."
Tommy squinted at the photo.
Casey stood near the back of the group shot, hands in his pockets. Calm. Almost bored. Like he didn't care about being there—or about being seen.
"That him?" Tommy asked.
Sue nodded slowly. "Yeah. That's him."
Tommy frowned. "He doesn't look like—"
"—like someone who'd kidnap a girl?" Sue finished.
Tommy hesitated. "…Yeah."
Sue stared at the picture longer than she needed to.
"He was quiet," she said. "Never caused trouble. Teachers liked him. Never once heard his name in the office."
Tommy glanced at her. "So why are we looking at him?"
Sue's jaw tightened.
"Because he was there," she said. "And because Carrie trusted him."
Tommy looked back at the photo.
"…That doesn't mean anything bad."
Sue closed the book gently.
"No," she said. "But it means something."
The radio across the room crackled again, just for a second.
"…woods near the outskirts—"
Sue turned her head sharply toward it.
Tommy swallowed. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"
Sue grabbed her jacket.
"If Casey Afton took Carrie White," she said, already moving for the door,
"then I want to know why."
Outside, the sky had begun to darken.
And far away, in a house that did not like being found, Casey felt a familiar pressure behind his eyes.
Someone had said his name.
He sighed.
"Great," he muttered. "Round two."
After a while—
Carrie looked at Casey like he'd just asked her to jump off the roof.
"You want me to what?"
Casey leaned against the counter, arms crossed, completely relaxed. "Use your powers."
Her hands tightened around the mug she was holding. "I—I don't think that's a good idea."
"It is," he said simply.
Carrie shook her head. "Every time I use them, something bad happens."
Casey didn't argue. Didn't interrupt.
"That's because you only ever use them when you're terrified," he said. "Fear makes everything louder. Messier."
She looked away. "I don't want to hurt anyone."
"You won't," he replied.
She glanced back at him. "How do you know?"
"Because we're not in danger," Casey said. "No one's yelling. No one's praying at you. No one's throwing buckets."
The words landed harder than he meant them to.
Carrie flinched.
Casey softened his tone. "And because I'm here."
Silence stretched between them.
He reached over and set a spoon on the table, placing it carefully in front of her.
"Just the spoon," he said. "Don't bend it. Don't throw it. Just… lift it."
Carrie stared at the metal.
Her breathing picked up.
"What if I can't stop?"
"Then I stop it," Casey said, without hesitation.
That finally made her look at him.
"You're not scared of me," she said quietly.
Casey shrugged. "I've met scarier."
She huffed out a weak, nervous laugh.
Slowly, hesitantly, Carrie closed her eyes.
The spoon rattled.
Just a little.
Casey watched closely—but didn't move.
The spoon lifted an inch off the table.
Carrie gasped and her eyes snapped open.
It clattered back down.
She stared at her hands like they'd betrayed her.
"I did that," she whispered.
"Yeah," Casey said. "And nothing broke."
She tried again.
This time the spoon rose smoothly, steady, hovering between them.
Carrie's breathing slowed.
Her shoulders dropped.
She smiled.
Just a little.
"I'm not scared," she said, surprised.
Casey nodded. "Told you."
The spoon settled back onto the table.
From the hallway, Clara watched quietly, saying nothing.
Carrie looked at Casey, still watching the spoon like it might betray her again.
"Do you… know what my powers are called?" she asked.
Casey nodded. "Yeah."
She waited.
"It's the Shine," he said. "That's the usual name."
Her brow furrowed. "The Shine?"
"Some people see things," he explained. "Some people hear things. Some people move things without touching them. It's all the same door. Just different ways of opening it."
Carrie glanced down at her hands. "And the other name?"
Casey smirked faintly. "If you ask a certain cowboy, he calls it the touch."
She looked up. "A cowboy?"
"Long coat. Weird guns. Talks like he's allergic to contractions," Casey said. "Trust me, you'd like him."
Carrie smiled despite herself. "So… I have the Shine."
"Yeah," Casey said. "Strong, too."
Her smile faded. "Then why does it feel like a curse?"
Casey didn't answer right away.
"Because everyone who noticed it in you wanted to use it," he said finally. "Or control it. Or punish it."
He met her eyes.
"That doesn't make it bad. Just makes the world bad at handling it."
Carrie swallowed. "Can it ever be… quiet?"
Casey nodded. "Yeah. But only if you stop being afraid of yourself."
The spoon lifted again—higher this time. Steadier.
It hovered there, calm as breathing.
Carrie exhaled slowly. "I think I understand."
Casey smiled, just a little. "Good. Because fear's what clowns eat."
Somewhere far away, something old twitched.
And didn't laugh this time.
Casey rested his elbows on the table.
"The Shine connects people because it's not really a power," he said. "It's a sensitivity."
Carrie tilted her head. "To what?"
"Everything," he replied. "Places. Memories. Other people. Things that happened and things that almost happened."
He tapped the table lightly. "Most people walk through the world with the lights off. People with the Shine leave one on."
Carrie thought about that. "So when I feel things that aren't happening to me…"
"You're picking up echoes," Casey said. "Emotions stick around. Trauma sticks around longer. The Shine just lets you hear it."
She looked uncomfortable. "That sounds exhausting."
"It is," he said. "That's why people with it tend to find each other. Same signal. Same noise."
Carrie was quiet for a moment.
Then she looked up at him. "Do you… have the Shine too?"
Casey paused.
"Kinda," he said.
She waited.
He shrugged. "I don't call it that."
"What do you call it?"
"The Emperor's Will," he said.
Carrie blinked. "That sounds… big."
"It is," Casey replied calmly. "And it isn't."
He leaned back. "The Shine listens. What I have answers."
She frowned. "Answers to what?"
Casey met her eyes.
"Reality," he said.
Carrie swallowed. "That's different."
"Yeah," Casey agreed. "Very."
The spoon on the table rattled—not from Carrie this time.
Casey placed two fingers on it.
It stopped.
"Different rules," he added. "Same responsibility."
From the hallway, Clara shifted her weight.
To be continued