Scarlet
The skies had turned the color of bruised lilac, a sullen dusk stretching across Spring Hollows like a warning. Wind howled through the trees, clawing at windowpanes and rooftops with desperate fingers. The storm hadn’t broken yet—but it was coming. I could feel it in my skin, in the bones beneath.
In the same way, I had begun to feel everything lately.
I stood by the window of my parents' house, staring out at the road below. The town had fallen too quiet. A lull before the snap. The whispers had grown into voices. The voices were now marching feet. The pack was coming.
And I didn’t think they were coming to talk. They made that very clear.
Behind me, my mother moved about the kitchen like a shadow—silent, restless. My father stood at the door with a shotgun in one hand, even
