The Smile That Almost Fit
Eight days into life in Star Valley, the family had almost perfected the art of pretending.
They moved through the house like people who had always lived there. Morning routines formed naturally—coffee brewing downstairs, the low hum of the shower upstairs, footsteps pacing from bedroom to bedroom. Their mother smiled more often now. Not wide, not carefree, but enough to soften the lines under her eyes. It was a practiced smile, one built out of necessity rather than comfort.
And somehow, surprisingly, it worked.
The house still felt off. The air still carried that faint sense of being observed. The woods behind the backyard still leaned just a little too close at night. But they adapted. Humans were good at that.
Jason adapted best.
He stayed in his room most days, door shut, music low but steady. The smell of metal and graphite often slipped into the hallway. Sometimes wood shavings too. He was building something—carefully, methodically. Blueprints littered his desk beside sketchbooks filled with sharp, intentional designs. Mechanical parts. Angled shapes. Structures that looked less like toys and more like preparations.
Their mother helped him.
She would knock twice, enter quietly, and close the door behind her. The two of them would speak in low tones, voices too soft for the others to make out. When Syd once asked what they were working on, Jason answered simply, "Just a project." Their mother had added, "Something productive." Then they changed the subject.
They never invited anyone else in.
Syd, meanwhile, had thrown herself into normalcy with both hands. She enrolled at Star Valley High School the very next Monday. The building was older than it looked in photos—brick darkened with age, windows tall and narrow, banners hanging slightly crooked in the main hall. But the students were welcoming. Warmer than she expected.
By day three, she had already found a group to sit with at lunch.
Maya, who laughed too loud but meant well. Carter, who talked about horror movies like they were documentaries. Lila, observant and dry-humored. They liked Syd immediately. Maybe it was her softness. Maybe it was the way she listened more than she spoke. Being a pacifist in a small town high school could have been a weakness, but somehow it became her strength. She diffused tension before it started. She smiled at people others ignored. She made herself safe to approach.
For the first time since the move, she looked genuinely happy.
The twins remained home.
Homeschooling had been their mother's decision, though no one argued. Artemis' anxiety had sharpened since the move. He rarely stepped outside unless necessary, and when he did, his gaze constantly drifted toward the tree line. He kept writing in his journal—pages filling faster now, observations growing stranger, sentences sometimes trailing off mid-thought as if interrupted by something only he could sense.
Dante, on the other hand, claimed school would be pointless. "It's all easy," he had said with a shrug. "I'd just get bored." He spent his time studying advanced math online, taking apart small electronics, winning every game he touched without visible satisfaction. There was something restless about him lately, like his mind was running ahead of his body.
By the eighth day, things felt stable enough for Syd to ask a simple question.
"Can we go to the square after school?"
Their mother hesitated only briefly before nodding. "Stay together."
Jason volunteered to go.
It wasn't framed as protection. It wasn't framed as supervision. But everyone understood.
The town square of Star Valley sat at its center like a preserved memory. A fountain shaped like a rearing horse stood dry in the middle, its stone cracked along one side. Small shops lined the perimeter—an old bookstore, a thrift shop, a bakery that smelled perpetually of cinnamon. String lights hung overhead, though half of them were burnt out.
Syd walked between her friends, laughing softly at something Maya said. Jason trailed just behind them, hands in his hoodie pockets, expression unreadable. He wasn't there to join in. He was there to watch.
The girls drifted from store to store, holding up outfits, comparing bracelets, sharing earbuds. Carter eventually split off toward the arcade across the street, promising to meet them later. Jason stayed near the entrances, leaning against brick walls or standing just outside shop windows.
And every few minutes, his gaze shifted.
Past the shops. Past the rooftops.
To the woods.
They bordered the town square from a distance, rising behind the last row of buildings like a dark green wall. In daylight, they looked harmless enough. Dense, yes. Quiet, yes. But just trees.
Still, Jason stared.
And something stared back.
He felt it—not fear, not yet—but awareness. The unmistakable sensation of being measured. Weighed. Studied. It prickled along the back of his neck and settled heavy in his chest. When his eyes locked onto a specific section of the tree line, the feeling intensified, like static building before a storm.
A pale shape shifted between trunks.
Too tall to be a deer. Too still to be wind.
Jason didn't look away.
Not immediately.
His expression didn't change, but his shoulders straightened subtly. His jaw tightened just enough to notice. The noise of the square dulled in his ears as he focused on that single patch of shadow.
Then someone bumped into him.
"Sorry!" Lila laughed, stepping back. "Zoned out?"
"Yeah," he replied smoothly, dragging his gaze away from the trees. "Just thinking."
When he looked back seconds later, the woods were empty. Normal. Quiet.
But the feeling lingered.
They continued their afternoon like nothing had happened. Syd tried on a denim jacket and spun once to show him. "Too much?" she asked.
"It's fine," Jason answered, the ghost of a smirk touching his lips.
He walked them to the bakery next, standing near the door while they debated frosting flavors. A group of older teens passed by, loud and careless, and Jason's attention shifted to them instantly. He didn't step in—didn't need to—but his presence alone seemed to deter anything stupid from happening. The group moved on.
He stayed alert the entire time.
Not tense.
Prepared.
As the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the square, Jason's eyes drifted once more toward the woods.
This time, he didn't see movement.
He saw depth.
The shadows between the trees looked thicker than before, layered unnaturally, like overlapping silhouettes. For a brief second—less than a blink—he thought he saw something vertical and jagged high among the branches.
Like a splintered curve.
Like the outline of something trying to form.
Then the wind picked up, and the image dissolved.
"Jason?" Syd called, pulling him back. "We're heading home."
He nodded, pushing off the wall.
As they walked away from the square, laughter echoing lightly behind them, Jason didn't look back again.
But deep in the woods, beyond where sunlight reached, something adjusted its focus.
Not scared.
Not rushed.
Just watching.
Waiting for the moment pretending stopped working.