The Crescent Moon.

~Aria's Pov~ They say grief comes in waves. But when you're drowning in it, all you feel is the pull. No breath. No light. Just the weight of everything gone. My name is Aria Blake, and two weeks ago, I buried my parents. It still doesn’t feel real. I keep waiting for someone to tell me there’s been a mistake. That the wreck on the winding hill road wasn’t them. That the charred car wasn’t ours. That the remains they pulled from the flames weren’t my mom and dad. But the silence after the funeral was too heavy to lie. The ashes were too final. The goodbye was too cruel. Now, I’m sitting in the back seat of a rusted pickup truck, the cold biting through the knee of my jeans, watching the trees blur past like shadows on the edge of sleep. My suitcase rattles beside me, bruised like I am. The driver is a man I barely know. He says his name is Earl, and that he works maintenance up in Black Hollow, the town I’m apparently going to call home. I glance down at the letter in my lap. My aunt’s handwriting is slanted, rushed. We’ve never met. Not once. But she’s my last living relative. And after the accident, the state gave me two options—foster care or family. I chose blood, even if it was a stranger’s. "You sure you’re okay, kid?" Earl glances at me in the rearview mirror. I nod, though my throat is tight. "Yeah. Just tired." He gives a small grunt. "Black Hollow’s quiet. Good for healing." I don’t say that I’m not sure I want to heal. That healing feels like betrayal. Like forgetting. My mom used to hum when she cooked breakfast. My dad would whistle off-key just to make her laugh. What do I become if I stop hearing those sounds? The trees thicken the deeper we go. Pines stretch high and cold above us, branches clawing at a sky painted grey. The town sign appears without warning: Welcome to Black Hollow – Est. 1852. Below it, someone’s scratched something into the wood. The words are almost gone, but I catch enough to read: “We Watch the Moon.” My stomach twists. We wind through the main street. It’s the kind of town that feels trapped in time. One gas station. A diner. A few shops with names like "Hollow Hardware" and "Silver Thread Books." A stone church stands crooked on the hill, and every porch seems to have a candle burning, even though it’s barely past noon. Finally, we turn down a dirt road lined with frost-bitten trees, and there it is—my new home. The house is old, tucked into the edge of the woods, like it’s hiding. The shutters are cracked. Ivy strangles the porch posts. But the light in the window is on. Earl parks and helps me carry my suitcase up the steps. Before I can knock, the door creaks open. She stands in the doorway. My Aunt Lenore. She’s tall, wrapped in a shawl the color of dusk, her long dark hair streaked with silver. Her eyes—my mother’s eyes—study me like a mirror she hasn’t looked into in years. "Aria," she says. My throat closes. "Come on in." The house didn’t creak the way most old homes do. It breathed. I noticed it the moment I stepped over the threshold—how the floorboards swelled and released like lungs in the dark. The air was thick with something I couldn’t quite name, but it clung to my skin like steam. Smoky. Sweet. Almost bitter. I sniffed again. Incense. Not the kind from gas stations or yoga stores, but something old. Earthy. Real. Like crushed herbs and dried petals and ash. My aunt closed the door gently behind me, as if loud sounds were not allowed inside. “Shoes off,” she said softly. “The house prefers bare feet.” I didn’t ask what that meant. She moved ahead of me, her footsteps barely making a sound on the wood. I followed, my boots thudding heavily until I kicked them off. The floor was warm beneath my socks. Warm. We passed a long hallway with walls the color of dried leaves. Strange symbols were painted just above the baseboards, in what looked like charcoal. They twisted and curved like snakes dancing. I stared at them too long. One of them blinked. I looked away quickly. The living room opened on the left—dim, cluttered, cozy in a way that didn’t invite you to sit. Candles stood half-melted in mismatched jars. Dried herbs hung from the ceiling like sleeping bats. A massive black cat lounged across the arm of a patched leather chair, its yellow eyes watching me like it already knew my secrets. “Don’t pet him,” my aunt murmured. “Unless he chooses you.” I nodded stiffly. The scent of incense was stronger here, laced with something sharp—like lemon balm and smoke. I tried not to cough. “Come. Your room’s upstairs,” she said. We climbed the narrow staircase, my hand brushing the polished rail. The stairs groaned under my weight but not hers. Of course not hers. Everything about her was too light. Too still. Like she wasn’t entirely here. At the top of the landing, she pushed open the last door on the left. “Here.” I stepped in. The room was… beautiful, in a haunting sort of way. It had a sloped ceiling, a bay window that overlooked the woods behind the house, and pale blue curtains that looked older than me. There were dried lavender bundles pinned to the walls, and small stones lined the windowsill like guardians. A quilt—patchworked in deep greens and burgundy—lay over the bed like a hug waiting to happen. “This was your mother’s room,” my aunt said softly. My throat closed up. I turned to face her. “I thought she hadn’t spoken to you in years.” “She hadn’t.” She touched the doorframe gently. “But this room was always waiting.” I lowered my bag to the floor and sat on the bed. The mattress sighed under me. I ran a hand over the quilt, fingers finding stitches that felt like stories. “I’m sorry I didn’t come back,” I said, the words surprising even me. My aunt didn’t look surprised. “I knew you would,” she replied. I glanced at her then. Really looked. She wasn’t old—not in the usual way. She had lines around her eyes, yes, and silver streaking her black curls. But there was something timeless about her. Like the house, she didn’t just age—she weathered. I swallowed hard. “Can I ask you something?” Her eyes met mine. “Yes.” “Do you know anything about… the howler's?” The silence dropped like a curtain. For a moment, she didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. Then she stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. The lock clicked softly. “The howler's,” she repeated. “Who told you that name?” “I read it In mom's diary. I think… I think something was after her.” My aunt sat on the edge of the window seat, the incense smell now curling through the vent like a coiled serpent, ”Never touch people's stuff. especially the dead." she said in a strange way. “Are you hungry?” "I could eat.” I said, looking into her eyes. the eyes my mother had. My God I miss her. “Take a bath, dinner will be done soon.” she opened the door to my now new room, and left.