Moonbound to the Alpha

The air in Elmridge Ridge smelled exactly the way it had five years ago. Damp soil, pine needles, and a faint metallic edge that always seemed to hang off the mountain. Rhea Calderon pressed her forehead against the cool car window as the tires crunched along the driveway. Pines towered on both sides of the road, blocking out what was left of the evening light. Her heart beat fast, but she kept her face relaxed, staring out at the trees. She had not been back here since she was twelve. Not since Eli disappeared. Beside her, her mother kept both hands glued to the steering wheel, her knuckles white. The years apart had aged her; her dark hair had streaks of gray at the temples, and her mouth stayed set in a tight line. "We won’t be staying long," her mother said, eyes fixed on the driveway ahead. "Just until I get settled at the clinic." Rhea did not bother answering. They both knew that was a lie. Her mother had taken a permanent position at Elmridge Memorial because they had run out of other options. This was not a visit. It was a move. They had passed through the small main strip earlier, where nothing looked different. The local diner sat on the corner with its yellowing sign, and the antique shop’s glass display was still caked in dust. But the whole valley felt heavy, like the air itself was compressed. A few locals standing outside the general store had turned as the car rolled by, watching them pass with open suspicion. Rhea had felt those looks all the way up the hill. The car stopped in front of the house at the edge of the woods. White paint peeled off the siding, the front porch sagged toward the left, and thick weeds climbed the steps. Rhea opened her door and stepped down. Her boots sank into dead leaves, and the forest air filled her lungs, cold and earthy. Inside, the house smelled of old paper and stagnant air. Drop cloths covered the furniture, turning the living room into a sea of gray shapes. Her footsteps sounded hollow on the bare floorboards as she walked down the hall, passing the kitchen before stopping in front of the last door on the right. It had stayed shut since the night she left. Eli’s room. Her hand hovered over the knob before she finally turned it. The hinges groaned. The bedroom was untouched. Posters of constellations and wolves still clung to the wallpaper. An acoustic guitar stood propped in the corner, dulled by a layer of grime. On the wooden desk sat a stack of spiral notebooks next to a picture frame with a cracked corner—her and Eli, sunburned and laughing on some long-forgotten afternoon. A knot formed in her chest. Rhea walked in and ran her fingers along the edge of the desk. She wanted to feel grief, or anger, or some sudden spark of connection to prove he had lived here. But the room felt empty, as if the house had simply forgotten him over time. "Rhea?" her mother’s voice called from the bottom of the stairs. "Dinner." Rhea did not answer immediately, letting the quiet sit before she turned and left the room. Dinner was short. They sat across from each other at the kitchen table while the ceiling light hummed above them. Her mother pushed a spoonful of peas around her plate, staring at the salt shaker. "It’s okay to miss him, Rhea," her mother offered gently. "I don't miss him," Rhea said. Her voice remained flat. Her mother blinked. "Rhea—" "I miss knowing what happened," Rhea said, looking straight at her. "I miss knowing the truth." Her mother looked away, pressing her lips together. "Sometimes there aren't answers. We have to accept that." Rhea let out a quiet, dry laugh. "Right. We just pretend it's fine and keep breathing." Neither of them spoke again. The clatter of forks against plates was the only sound in the house. By midnight, the silence inside her bedroom felt unbearable. Unable to sleep, Rhea pulled a dark hoodie over her head and crept downstairs. She slipped out the back door, carefully letting the latch fall into place without a sound. The night air bit at her face as she stepped into the yard. A thin sliver of the moon sat low in the dark sky, casting long shadows across the grass. She picked up the dirt path behind the yard, the same trail she and Eli used to run down as kids. The woods were filled with small noises—leaves shifting in the brush, an owl calling out high in the branches. She turned on her pocket flashlight, its beam cutting a weak path through the darkness. A few hundred yards down, the trees opened up into the old park. The sight brought back a sudden memory of Eli pushing her on the swings while Lucci climbed the monkey bars. She stopped near the bottom of the slide to listen. A swing chain clinked softly as it moved in the night air. Then wood snapped nearby. It was a heavy sound from the brush. Rhea turned her body, swinging the flashlight beam toward the trees. "Hello?" Nothing moved. Her heart began to race. "Is someone there?" No reply came. She took a slow step back toward the house, but as the flashlight beam crossed a gap between two fir trees, something reflected the light back at her. Two eyes sat deep in the shadows, glowing with a faint amber light. They stayed on her for a second, unblinking, before turning away into the thicket. Rhea gasped, stepping backward onto a root and losing her footing. She hit the ground, the impact shaking her arm as the flashlight tumbled into the leaves. She scrambled on her hands and knees, grabbed the light, and pointed it back toward the trees. The gap was empty. She got to her feet and ran. She did not slow down until her boots hit the back porch steps. She pushed the door open, locked the bolt, and leaned her back against the heavy wood, breathing heavily. It was an animal, she told herself, pressing her palm to her forehead. A deer. A stray dog. The excuses felt thin the moment she thought them. Upstairs, she lay on top of her bed, staring up at the ceiling. Her pulse refused to slow down, and every small rustle from the yard seemed amplified against the glass. She rolled over and looked out the window. The tree line stood out dark against the sky. And then she saw them again. Sitting just past the wooden fence, half-hidden in the shadow of the pines, were those same amber eyes. Watching her window. A chill ran down her arms. She wanted to yell out, but her throat felt dry. It was not just fear pulling at her. It was a tangle of anger, loss, and a strange sense of recognition. Those eyes were not wild. They were waiting. And deep down, Rhea felt certain that whatever was sitting in those shadows knew who she was. It knew what had been taken five years ago. She climbed out of bed, walked to the window, and rested her hand against the pane. Her breath left a circle of fog on the glass. "Elmridge hasn’t changed," she whispered into the dark room. "But I have." Down on the porch, the wind chime struck once—a clear ring in the quiet night. Rhea stared back at the dark, knowing she had not just returned to look for the past. The past was waiting for her.