For the rest of the day, Aralyn took Noah's advice and chose to rest.
Her movements became noticeably languid and sluggish after Noah left, as though something inside her had quietly given out. For reasons she couldn't quite name, she had forced herself to keep a stiff upper lip while he was there, masking just how fragile she truly felt. Once alone, that restraint slipped.
She changed out of her costume and took a long shower, letting the water run over her until the warmth dulled the lingering tension in her body. When she stepped out, she didn't bother drying her hair properly. She simply walked into the living room and let herself fall onto the couch.
It took less than a minute for sleep to fully claim her.
She opened her eyes and found herself standing in the middle of Dewhurst.
It was dark.
A cold breeze swept through the empty square, slipping beneath her clothes and raising goosebumps along her skin. Aralyn shivered as she slowly turned, taking in her surroundings. Every store was cloaked in darkness, their windows hollow and lifeless. When she lifted her gaze, the sky stretched endlessly above her, filled with stars that burned too brightly against the silence.
A sudden flutter broke through the stillness. A flyer came drifting through the air and smacked lightly against her face.
Startled, she caught it before it could fall. The paper was slightly worn, the ink faded at the edges. It advertised some kind of city event, though her attention quickly narrowed to the date printed at the bottom. Her breath caught.
The year marked below was 2023. Exactly three years.
At once, her mark began to glow, a soft blue light pulsing faintly beneath her skin. Something deep within her stirred, urging her to look up, so she did.
A brilliant streak of light tore across the sky. A shooting star. Another Fallen.
Her gaze followed its descent until it disappeared somewhere within the town. In the distance, a single building flickered with light. The old neon sign buzzed faintly, casting a dim glow over the street.
Harrow. The herbalist's shop. Without hesitation, she began walking toward it.
"Lyn..."
Aralyn froze. The voice came from behind her, soft and achingly, painfully familiar.
Her stomach twisted as she slowly turned, but there was no one there. Only empty streets and the whisper of wind brushing past her ears.
Before she could move again, something fell from the sky. Two objects landed a few feet away from her. She approached them cautiously. The first was a red flannel. Her breath stilled as she picked it up. The fabric was worn, but the scent was unmistakable, woodsy and musky, grounding in a way that made her chest tighten. She lifted it closer, pressing it lightly to her nose, and exhaled slowly. "Noah," she murmured.
A frown creased her brows. Why would his flannel appear here? Her eyes dropped to the second item.
A small handkerchief. White, neatly folded, with delicate gold trim along the edges. She turned it over in her hands, about to read the embroidery stitched into one corner. And then she felt it.
Someone standing behind her. Her mark flared brighter, pulsing steadily in blue.
As she turned, she saw a man standing in the center of the square. He looked majestic.
His brown curls caught what little light there was, framing a face that was both striking and unsettling in its perfection. His blue eyes held her in place, deep and hypnotic, as though they could see far more than they should. Where others might have appeared ordinary, this man radiated something entirely different.
His power pulsed around him like heat rising from sun-scorched earth, yet instead of burning, it cooled her, wrapped her in a strange sense of calm that didn't belong.
A Fallen.
"There is no need to look so wounded, Chosen," he said. His voice carried a melodic quality, though unlike Phoebe's softness, his held weight, something commanding beneath the surface.
Aralyn stiffened.
"Do not call me that. I have a name."
The man only tilted his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "What brings you here, daughter of Fay?"
The title sat wrong on her ears, unfinished, as if even he had not decided what to call her lineage.
"How do you know me?" she demanded, though even as the words left her mouth, she felt the foolishness of them. Of course he knew. Majestic beings like him always did.
He ignored the question entirely. "You thought of leaving again," he said instead. "Why didn't you?"
Aralyn hesitated. A lie rose to her lips, but she swallowed it. Something told her there was no point in trying. "Something is happening," she admitted quietly. "And I intend to find out."
"Oh?" His smile deepened, amused. "That is not the Aralyn we knew. You used to flee the moment you sensed something brewing. What changed?"
She said nothing. Silence felt safer, she thought, but then he stepped forward. And she instinctively stepped back, tightening her grip on the flannel and the handkerchief.
"Once a stone-hearted witch," he continued, his voice lowering, "now someone who has found a second chance… with a man bound to the soil of this earth."
The words hit her like a blow. The air in her lungs had been knocked out abruptly. "He is not here anymore," she breathed.
The Fallen's gaze dropped briefly to what she held in her hands, then lifted back to her face.
"Is he?"
Confusion flickered through her as she looked down, making her world instantly tilted. The red flannel was gone. In its place, she was holding a torn grey shirt. Her fingers trembled as she took it in. She knew this shirt.
She had loved this shirt. Her throat tightened, her chest constricting painfully as her gaze fell to the dark stains spread across the fabric. Blood. His blood.
When she looked up again, the Fallen was gone.
Aralyn's eyes snapped open.
She blinked rapidly, her vision swimming as she sucked in a shaky breath. A tear slipped down her temple before she even realized she had been crying. Slowly, she pushed herself upright and covered her face with her hands, letting out a tired, unsteady sigh. "Why did he say that?" she whispered hoarsely. "He's been dead for decades."
Her voice echoed through the room, carried by the fading light of sunset spilling through the windows. She leaned back against the couch, her eyes drifting toward the clock on the wall. Almost seven. She must have slept through the entire day.
Her thoughts returned to the dream. Too many things didn't make sense. Then again, neither did she.
Why had Harrow's shop been open in the dead of night? What was the significance of the flyer? And why would a Fallen appear in her dream at all?
Her brows knitted together in confusion.
Then the memory of the falling objects surfaced again. Noah's flannel. The handkerchief.
What did they mean? Was it a warning?
That seemed the most plausible explanation. A Fallen would have knowledge of things beyond her reach, things that had already been set in motion long before they fell.
Still, one question lingered.
If the date on the flyer mattered, if that shooting star marked something real, then had he fallen on that exact day? Was that man the one she had seen descend from the sky?
"Who the hell was 'we'?" she muttered under her breath. The way he had said it lingered uneasily in her mind.
'The Aralyn we knew…'
Not I.
We.
Did that mean there were others? That more than one had fallen that night? Or had he been referring to something else entirely, something from before his fall?
'Is he?'
The words echoed again. A sudden pain stabbed through her chest, stealing the air from her lungs. Her eyes burned as tears welled up once more. Even after all these years, the grief had not dulled. It still felt raw and fresh as if time had refused to touch it.
She could still see that night. The torn shirt in her hands had felt so real, so vivid, and with it came the memories she had tried so hard to bury.
Aralyn turned onto her side, her body curling inward as the sobs finally broke free. She cried openly now, the pain crashing over her without restraint. The image of him, of what had been done to him, of the way he had suffered until his final breath, tore through her again and again.
Why would the Fallen speak of second chances?
For someone like her, the idea had always been impossible.
Reincarnation. Redemption. Another life.
Those were not things she believed in. That kind of power belonged only to the Lord. It was never hers to give, nor hers to take. And yet, why had he said it as though it were true? As though it were real? As though… He was still alive.