The Twin with the Emerald Eyes

The alarm never went off. Not that it mattered. The day had begun long before the sun stretched its first gray fingers across the sky. I woke with the familiar ache pressing into my chest, the dull weight that had followed me every birthday since Morgan was gone. Fifteen. Fifteen years old. Taken. And here I was, nineteen, carrying the ache like a shadow stitched to my ribs, a shadow that no amount of sunlight or coffee or sleep could ever lift. Across the hall, Morgan’s room remained untouched, a museum of absence. Posters of stars and bands, books stacked in precarious towers, a faint scent of lavender clinging stubbornly to the air. I pressed my hand to the doorframe, hesitant, half-expecting her to appear, to tease me for taking so long in the shower, to laugh at my clothes. But there was nothing. Just memory, heavy and sharp, settling like dust on the corners of the room. Every item in that room was a remnant of a life that had ended too soon, a constant reminder of what I’d lost. Even the half-written journal on the desk, the pen still perched between pages, felt like a whisper of her presence. Mom was downstairs, clinking dishes with that quiet, hollow rhythm that had become her life. The whistle of the kettle shrilled through the house, a sound once comforting but now sharp, a daily announcement of endurance without joy. I could hear her hum something tuneless as she poured coffee—her voice weak, distracted, as if even the melody of her own life had faded. Dad had gone out to the garage hours earlier; he claimed he was “working,” but the faint smell of whiskey and oil still clung to the air around him, acrid and bitter, a perfume of avoidance. I could picture him sitting in the truck, staring at the horizon, pretending it would blur everything away. Our family had been hollowed out the day Morgan died, and no one had bothered to rebuild the walls. The house itself seemed to mourn, creaking under the weight of our collective emptiness, cold tiles and drafty corners echoing the spaces left by grief. I pulled my robe tighter around me and locked the bathroom door. Steam curled against the mirror, fogging the glass, twisting around my reflection like smoke from some unseen fire. Nineteen. A number that should have meant freedom, excitement, possibility. Instead, it meant absence and expectation. I stared into my own eyes—hollow, stubborn, weary—and wondered what it would feel like to wake up with hope instead of pain. I lingered under the shower longer than usual, letting the hot water roll over me, tracing the ache into numbness. For a moment I imagined the water washing the empty place inside me clean. It didn’t. It never did. The mirror reflected steam and exhaustion, a skin stretched tight over bones that carried memory like a backpack too heavy to put down. My fingers traced the condensation, making little circles, wishing for a small miracle. The invitation sat on my desk. Aidan’s birthday. I had known the date all my life; our birthdays were tethered by childhood memory, by the way our families had celebrated together when Morgan and I were young. Each year, the town buzzed with anticipation, whispers and plans circling the Alpha’s son. Sam, with her sunlit smile, the tidy picture of perfection at his side. I wanted none of it. The thought of smiling politely, of pretending to care, of letting Sam’s presence brush against the edges of Aidan’s world—it was unbearable. Childhood memories rose unbidden. Aidan’s stubborn grin as we’d walked to school together, the way he teased Morgan mercilessly while she plotted harmless revenge. How he once dared me to jump across the creek with him, and I had refused, fearing broken bones. He had laughed, of course, and Morgan had joined in, calling me “the cautious twin” with a wink. We grew up in parallel lines: him, the Alpha’s son; us, just kids trying to exist in a pack ruled by rules and expectations. There had been fleeting moments—glances, shared jokes, the way he always remembered the small details—but nothing beyond childhood innocence. Morgan’s voice echoed in my mind, teasing, warm. “You’ll see, Mari,” she’d say. “Your mate will sweep in, golden and impossible, and you’ll swoon even if you don’t want to.” I’d shake my head at her, laugh at her dreams of Alphas and kingdoms, because I’d always wanted something simple: quiet mornings, laughter without expectation, a life unburdened by power and tradition. But she had dreamed in vivid color, and I’d admired her for it. Every year, I walked to the place where Morgan had taken her last breath. The trail inked itself into my boots: leaf litter that sighed with each step, narrow paths sinking into pines until the world muffled into green. Her tree stood where the earth softened—roots like ribs—and people left the usual things: notes taped to bark, balloons flattened by time, flowers brittle and brown. Someone always left lilies. Someone I didn’t know. I had never found out who. Today, as every year, I let my fingers brush the petals, imagining Morgan laughing at the devotion of a stranger—or perhaps a friend. The thought warmed something that had long felt frozen. I remembered her laughter, the sound of it ringing across the woods on our birthday hikes, how she would run ahead, daring me to catch up, daring life itself to pass us by. She had loved to dream big. Alphas, distant cities, impossible romances. I had loved her for that, for the way she imagined the world in colors I couldn’t see. And sometimes, I wondered if part of me had died when she did. I leaned back against the rough bark, closing my eyes. The wind moved through the branches like the rest of the world was breathing without me. I let my mind wander to Morgan’s teasing about mates and destiny. She had imagined me swept off my feet by someone impossibly golden while she—ever bold—would laugh at the scene from her perfect vantage point. I allowed myself a faint smile at the memory, even as the ache tugged stubbornly. I took the long way home, avoiding the streets of town where faces, gossip, and reminders of Aidan and Sam would press in like unwelcome hands. Hollow fences, occasional barking dogs, the smell of wet earth rising from ditches—my small sanctuary on the back roads. The chill rain had left the gravel slick and sparkling, reflecting the pale morning light in tiny diamonds under my boots. Each step felt measured, ritualistic, a silent protest against the world that demanded I participate when I wanted to disappear. Near the pack house, it hit me: a subtle, enveloping cedar scent. At first, I thought it might be a delivery, someone carrying boards. But there were no trucks, no men. The air was still, and the smell persisted, warm and sharp, like a whisper brushing the edges of memory. My chest constricted. This was no ordinary scent—it carried weight, familiarity, the faint pulse of something that didn’t belong yet demanded attention. I froze for a heartbeat, letting the scent pull at me. Memories of summers spent playing in the woods near the pack house surged forward: racing along the edges of the trails, Morgan daring me to keep up, Aidan calling out from behind, laughter spilling into the sunlight. The scent wrapped around me as if the forest itself were speaking, pressing against my skin. And then, a flash—Aidan, grinning as he challenged me to climb the tallest tree near the creek. My stomach clenched. Something in the cedar felt impossibly familiar, almost like the beginning of a story I hadn’t known I’d been waiting for. I lingered for a moment, inhaling the cedar deeply, letting it fill the hollow places inside me. Part of me wanted to follow it, to chase whatever phantom had left this trace behind. But the sky was climbing, and shadows pressed into the corners of my mind, whispering reminders of obligations and the mundane ache of absence. Heart racing, I ran the last stretch home. The driveway was empty, the house dark and hollow. I wanted to fold into the silence, disappear into the quiet. I kicked at the gravel before opening the door, letting the emptiness swallow me. Inside, the bed took me in, the mattress curving around the fatigue that had no shape but weight. I lay there, eyes closed, listening to the ghost of footsteps that no longer existed, the whispers of laughter that would never return. The lilies, the cedar, Morgan’s voice, Aidan’s face—all flickered in the dim corners of my mind. For a fleeting moment, I allowed myself a spark of hope, fragile and small, that maybe this day, gray and hollow as it was, might lead somewhere new. Somewhere beyond grief. Somewhere beyond absence. Somewhere that Morgan would have smiled at, in that knowing, mischievous way that only she could.