Moonbound to the Alpha

The air in Elmridge Ridge smelled the same—pine needles, wet soil, and the faint scent of something ancient, something wild. Rhea Calderon leaned her forehead against the car window as the tires crunched over gravel. The trees stretched like sentinels on either side of the road, tall and silent. Her heart raced, but she kept her face unreadable. She hadn’t been back since she was twelve. Since her brother vanished. Her mother, seated beside her in the driver's seat, clutched the wheel tightly. The lines on her face were deeper now, her hair streaked with more gray than Rhea remembered. “We won’t be staying long,” her mother murmured, eyes fixed ahead. Rhea didn’t answer. They both knew that wasn’t true. Her mother had taken a new job at the Elmridge Clinic. This wasn’t a visit. It was a return. As they passed through the main street, Rhea noticed how little had changed. The old diner still sat at the corner, the antique shop with dusty windows remained untouched. But there was a feeling in the air—a heaviness, like the town itself was holding its breath. People they passed looked up, some pausing, some frowning. She could feel their eyes on her. They pulled up to their old house at the edge of the woods. The white paint had peeled, the porch sagged slightly, and weeds climbed the fence. A wind chime on the porch swayed though there was no breeze. Rhea stepped out of the car, her boots crunching on dry leaves. The scent of the forest wrapped around her, earthy and electric. Inside, the house was a time capsule. Furniture covered in white sheets, dust clinging to everything. Her footsteps echoed on the wooden floor. She wandered through the rooms—kitchen, living room, hallway—until she stood in front of a door that hadn’t been opened in five years. Eli’s room. She hesitated, then reached for the knob. It creaked open to reveal a space frozen in time. Posters of wolves and galaxies still clung to the walls. His guitar leaned in the corner. A stack of old notebooks sat on the desk, untouched. A cracked photo frame rested by the window—a picture of her and Eli, grinning. A lump formed in her throat. She stepped inside, letting her fingers drift over the desk. She wanted to feel something—grief, anger, connection—but all she felt was emptiness. Like the room itself had forgotten. Downstairs, her mother called her name. “Rhea? Dinner.” She didn’t answer at first, letting the silence speak for her. Later, at dinner, the silence stretched thin. Her mother pushed peas around her plate and finally said, “It’s okay to miss him.” “I don’t miss him,” Rhea replied flatly. Her mother blinked. “Rhea—” “I miss the truth. I miss knowing what happened.” Her mom looked away, lips pressed into a line. “Sometimes we don’t get answers.” Rhea scoffed. “No. We just pretend everything’s fine and keep breathing.” After that, they ate in silence. Even the clink of silverware felt hollow. Later that night, unable to sleep, Rhea found herself drawn to the forest. She slipped on her hoodie and left the house quietly, careful not to wake her mom. The moon hung low in the sky, casting long shadows through the trees. She followed the old path behind the house—the same trail she and Eli used to take. The forest greeted her with rustling leaves and the distant hoot of an owl. Her flashlight flickered as she walked, but she didn’t stop. Something about the night pulled at her, called her. Halfway down the trail, she passed the old park. Memories hit her like a punch—Eli pushing her on the swing, Lucci climbing the monkey bars, laughter echoing through the clearing. She paused by the rusted slide, listening. A broken swing creaked in the wind. Then she heard it. A rustle. Quick, sharp. Not the wind. She turned, shining her flashlight into the trees. “Hello?” Silence. Her pulse quickened. “Is someone there?” No answer. Just as she turned to leave, she saw it—two eyes, glowing faintly in the dark. They blinked once, then vanished. Her breath caught. She stumbled backward, tripping over a root, landing hard on the ground. She scrambled to her feet, heart pounding. Her flashlight clattered across the leaves. When she retrieved it and pointed it forward, there was nothing. She ran. By the time she got home, her mother was asleep. Rhea locked the door and leaned against it, trying to calm down. She told herself it was a deer. A trick of the light. Nothing more. But she knew better. Later, as she lay in bed, she stared at the ceiling. Her heart hadn’t settled. The sounds of the forest still rang in her ears. She rolled over and glanced out the window. The trees loomed just beyond the backyard fence. And then, for a moment, she saw them again—those same glowing eyes. Watching. A chill crept down her spine. She wanted to scream. Not out of fear—but out of something more tangled. Anger. Loss. Recognition. Because deep down, some part of her believed those eyes knew her. Knew what she’d lost. And maybe, just maybe, they could lead her to the truth. She pressed her hand to the window. Her breath fogged the glass. “Elmridge hasn’t changed,” she whispered. “But I have.” Behind her, the wind chime sounded again—soft, musical, eerie. And in that moment, Rhea Calderon knew she wasn’t just chasing the past. It was chasing her back.