THE PROTECTORS Book of Souls

​My name is Brendon Cole, and up until two weeks ago, I was a predictable fifteen-year-old. My world was small, defined by the white lines of a football pitch and the comforting, constant scent of my mum’s laundry detergent. We lived in a cramped two-bed in Dartmouth—just me and my mum, Jenny. My dad was a ghost, a man who existed only in the blurry margins of stories I’d overheard but never been told. ​Life was good. It was loud, full of banter, and safe. But then the clock started ticking toward a version of my life I didn't recognize. ​The Cafe ​It started with a coffee. ​I was killing time at the High Street cafe, tucked into a corner booth while I waited for my bus. That’s when I saw her. She wasn’t a customer; she was weaving through the tables with a tray balanced perfectly on one hand. She didn't just walk; she seemed to glide through the steam of roasted beans and the afternoon chatter. ​She wore the cafe’s black apron, but it looked more like a costume on her. Her jet-black hair was pulled into a tail so tight it looked painful, and her eyes looked like they’d seen things a teenager shouldn’t. When she reached my table to clear a stray mug, my brain stalled. ​"Coffee," I blurted out. I hadn't even meant to order anything else. I sounded like an i***t, and my heart gave a violent, traitorous thud against my ribs. ​She paused, the tray resting against her hip. "With or without milk?" she asked. Her voice was like silk sliding over glass—smooth, but with a hidden edge. ​"With. Please." ​She gave me a cheeky, knowing smile and headed back toward the counter. I watched her go, unable to look elsewhere. It wasn't just that she was beautiful; it was a crushing weight of deja vu. I knew the way she tilted her head. I knew the specific curve of that smile. But I was certain I’d never seen her before in my life. ​The Mist ​By the time I reached the bus stop, her shift must have ended. The Dartmouth fog had rolled in, turning the streetlamps into hazy, sickly yellow smudges. The temperature had plummeted, the kind of damp cold that bites through a hoodie. I sat on the frozen bench, shivering, still trying to place the waitress's face in my memory. ​Then, out of the mist, she appeared again. ​She had traded her apron for a thin dark coat. She didn't make a sound as she sat on the far end of the bench. The fine drizzle turned her black hair into a sleek helmet. ​"Hello again," she said, her voice cutting through the fog. "What's your name?" ​"Br-Brendon. Brendon Cole." ​She reached out a hand, and for a second, our skin brushed. She was unnaturally cold, like she’d been standing in a freezer rather than just the rain. "I’m Maria-Hope." ​"That’s... unusual," I said, trying to find some courage. ​"Maria for my grandmother," she whispered, leaning closer until I could smell something faint and metallic on her breath. "And Hope is what my mother says I should keep in my heart at all times." She chuckled, but the sound was hollow; it never reached her eyes. ​The brakes of the bus screeched as it pulled up to the curb, a wall of yellow light cutting through the gloom. I stood up, feeling a sudden, strange reluctance to leave. ​"I... I have to go," I said, looking back at her. "Goodbye, Maria-Hope." ​She tilted her head, her expression unreadable in the shadows of the bus stop. "It was nice to meet you, Brendon," she replied. The way she said my name felt like a secret we were both keeping. ​The Journey Home ​I scanned my pass and slumped into the back seat, pressing my forehead against the vibrating glass. As the bus lumbered away, I watched her. She stayed there, a dark silhouette standing perfectly still in the rain, waving slowly until the bus rounded the corner and the mist swallowed her whole. ​The ride was a blur. I stared at the raindrops racing each other down the window, but all I could see was her face. Who was she? Why did the sound of her name feel like a song I’d forgotten the lyrics to? My skin where she’d touched me still felt unnaturally chilled, a small patch of winter that wouldn't thaw. ​By the time the bus reached my stop, the mist had finally broken, replaced by a sudden, violent downpour. The sky opened up, turning the evening into a deluge of heavy, drumming rain. I leaped off the bus and sprinted, my sneakers splashing through deep puddles, my clothes soaking through in seconds. ​The Shift ​I practically crashed through the front door, gasping for air and dripping wet. The hallway floor was instantly covered in muddy boot prints. The house smelled like lasagne and chips—the ultimate comfort meal. ​"Brendon? Is that you or a drowned rat?" Mum called from the kitchen, her voice bright and full of its usual warmth. ​I walked into the kitchen, peeling off my sodden hoodie. Mum was at the stove, humming to herself. She turned around, eyes widening as she saw the state of me. ​"Oh, look at you! You’re going to catch your death. Go get a towel, you lunatic," she laughed, grabbing a plate. She began piling it high with steaming lasagne, her face glowing in the light of the kitchen. She paused, squinting at me. "And what’s that look on your face? You look like you’ve won the lottery. Or... wait." She leaned in, a mischievous, joyful glint in her eyes. "Did you finally meet a girl?" ​I felt the heat rush to my cheeks, and I couldn't stop the goofy, schoolboy grin if I tried. I sat down at the table, my heart still racing from the run home. "Maybe. She’s the waitress at the cafe. She’s incredible, Mum. Her name is Maria-Hope." ​The metal spatula hit the floor with a deafening clatter. ​The joy vanished from Mum’s face so fast it was like someone had blown out a candle. Her hands began to tremble, and her face went a sickly shade of grey. ​"What did you say her name was?" she whispered. Her eyes darted toward the window as if expecting to see someone standing in the storm. ​"Maria-Hope," I repeated, my grin fading. "Mum, what's wrong? Do you know her?" ​She didn't answer. She didn't pick up the spatula or offer me a plate. She simply turned and walked out of the kitchen, her footsteps heavy and hollow. A moment later, I heard the heavy, final click of the bolt on her bedroom door. ​I sat there in the sudden silence of the kitchen, staring at the empty doorway. It was weird, for sure. Mum had always been the rock, the one who laughed off everything. But as the steam from the lasagne rose up to meet me, the worry started to slip away. ​I picked up my fork and took a bite. It was perfect. I looked back at the rain lashing against the kitchen window and thought about the way Maria-Hope had waved at the bus. I thought about the silkiness of her voice and that cheeky, knowing smile. ​Slowly, despite the locked door and the silence in the hall, the grin returned to my face. She was just so beautiful. ​I kept eating, my mind miles away in the mist, already wondering when I could go back to the cafe to see her again.