Aiden lasted exactly two days before Hollow Ridge started rewiring them.
Lyra caught them on the porch that evening, notebook in hand, watching the yard like it was a live experiment. Wolves moved through the space in easy arcs—kids playing chase near the training field, Nia correcting a teenager’s stance, Ivy hauling a tray of something that smelled dangerously like cookies from the kitchen to the picnic table.
“You know you’re allowed to write inside like a normal bureaucrat,” Lyra said, leaning against the railing.
Aiden smiled, tired but real. “The acoustics in there are terrible,” they said. “Hard to hear what people actually mean under all the plates and yelling.”
“You picked the right place,” Lyra said. “We do our best yelling outdoors.”
They hesitated, then flipped the noteboo
