Shadowbound

Chapter 2

The funeral left me hollow.

Every pair of eyes in the room weighed heavily with pity, their faces blurred behind the fog of sympathy I couldn’t feel. Whispers rustled like wind through dead leaves.

But the faces that truly mattered—the ones I would never see again—were absent. That thought lodged like a cold blade beneath my ribs.

I should have been in that car with them. I would have been, if not for a single, stupid excuse: unfinished homework. A blank page. A pencil left down. A trivial choice that became the fulcrum of life and death. Guilt and salvation twisted until I could no longer tell them apart.

For days afterward, my friends were my only anchors. Phoebe never left my side, wrapping blankets around me, brewing tea I didn’t drink, smoothing my hair when I stared at nothing. Conrad held the pieces of life together when I couldn’t. He carried groceries, signed forms, sat beside me in silence, breathing with me as though sharing his air could keep me alive.

They tried—God, they tried—to coax me back to some semblance of normal. But normal was a costume I no longer knew how to wear.

The house had become a museum of echoes. Cups still sat in the sink where my mother had left them. My father’s aftershave lingered in the hallway like a ghost that refused to leave. Memories washed over me in waves sharp enough to wound: laughter from holiday dinners, quiet arguments, the soft reprimands that once annoyed me, the familiar groan of my father’s favorite chair. Every corner held a memory. Every memory bled.

Weeks passed, and Uncle Tristan remained my thread to the world. Silent when silence was needed, firm when I needed grounding, gentle in the small, essential ways. Eventually, when the fog of grief thinned just enough to let me see beyond the next hour, I made the decision I had avoided: I had to move on.

Not to forget—never that—but to keep breathing. My parents would have wanted that. Yet staying in the house they filled with life was impossible. Every wall, every step, every room was a gallery of ghosts.

So I chose to leave. Start fresh. Somewhere far enough that memories wouldn’t strangle me. Somewhere my father had whispered about.

Beacon Hills.

A place I’d only heard in hushed parental conversations. Its name clung to me with a persistent weight. A week before they died, my father had held my shoulders and said:

“Baby, listen to me. If you’re ever lost… if something happens and you don’t know where to go—go to Beacon Hills. Everything you’re meant to know… it starts there.”

At the time, I laughed it off. Now, those words felt like lifeline and prophecy.

I didn’t understand them yet, but moving to Beacon Hills wasn’t escape. It was stepping toward something I couldn’t name.

When I told Uncle Tristan I couldn’t stay, he didn’t argue. Didn’t lecture. He simply looked at me with the same fierce tenderness he had when I was small—like he would hold up the sky to keep me from falling.

“Leave,” he said, his voice calm, strong. “It’s not running away. It’s surviving. We’ll handle the rest.”

When he asked where I wanted to go, only one place came to mind: Beacon Hills.

Before I could question it, he had already found a house—small, safe, tucked away, perfect for a new beginning. I told him I’d planned to rent, but he refused. He bought it, saying softly, “You’ve lost enough. You’re not losing your security too.”

He oversaw the move, arranged utilities, handled finances, stocked the fridge, and left a box of my favorite tea on the counter, clearing his throat like it embarrassed him.

Packing felt like stitching a wound. I folded clothes I wouldn’t wear again. Wrapped a few precious items. Left the rest behind because my heart couldn’t carry them.

Phoebe hovered, anxious and protective, making sure every last box reached the car. Conrad moved with quiet precision, loading the trunk, double-checking straps, glancing at me in that soft, worried way he always did when he was trying not to show he was breaking too.

When I stepped into the doorway for the last time, the porch light cast a pale halo across the steps. The house looked the same—but without them inside, it felt hollow, as if even the walls were holding their breath.

For one fleeting second, I wanted to run back, to call their names, to pretend silence wasn’t permanent.

But there was no one left to answer.

Throughout the drive, Conrad kept glancing at me, his gaze soft but searching, as if he could read the storm of thoughts I refused to speak aloud. He knew me too well; silence wasn’t emptiness with him—it was a language he understood.

After a long pause, he tapped my shoulder gently, and the warmth in his voice cut through the fog of my mind.

“You okay, D bear?”

That nickname. The sound of it made my chest constrict. He had called me that since the day we met, and it always carried a weight of familiarity, of safety I wasn’t sure I deserved anymore.

I forced a small smile, nodding. “Yeah… I’m okay.”

His hazel eyes searched mine, full of something I couldn’t name—concern, regret, a quiet longing—and I quickly looked away, unwilling to let myself sink into the emotions that had no place here, not now.

Conrad sighed, a low, tired sound, and shifted his focus back to the road. “Remember this, Adi,” he said after a moment, his tone calm but unwavering. “I know things didn’t work out between us, but you’re still my best friend. That’s never going to change. Don’t ever hesitate to call me whenever you need me, okay? I promise I’ll always be there for you.”

I swallowed hard, the sincerity in his voice anchoring me in a way nothing else could. My throat tightened, and my heart ached, but I managed to reply. “Thanks. I… I know you will. Your words mean a lot to me.”

For a long stretch, we drove in silence. But it wasn’t heavy or awkward—just the quiet that only comes when two people have a shared history too deep for words. The sky shifted from soft gold to deep navy, sprinkled with stars that blinked like small, watchful eyes over the earth. And then, finally, the sign appeared—the first glimpse of a new chapter, of a life waiting for me.

“Welcome to Beacon Hills.”

A deep sigh left my lips, a mix of relief and apprehension. This was it.

Conrad, sensing the tremor of unease I couldn’t hide, reached over and took my hand in his. His touch was warm, steady, familiar—a tether to everything I wasn’t ready to face alone.

“Hey,” he murmured, his thumb brushing across the back of my hand, “everything is going to be fine, okay?”

I nodded, scanning the town as we drove slowly through streets lined with trees I couldn’t yet name, houses that looked lived-in and kind. There was an energy here, subtle and insistent, something that made the hairs on my arms prickle. And yet… despite the uncertainty, a fragile smile lifted the corners of my lips. Maybe I was meant to be here.

We arrived at a cozy, single-story house tucked into a quiet neighborhood. The porch light glowed softly, casting the house in a warm, almost protective embrace. I stepped out of the car, drawing a deep, shuddering breath as the reality of it hit me.

“Guess this is my new home now,” I murmured, my voice fragile.

Conrad gave me a small, fond smile. “Welcome home.”

He didn’t waste a moment. He jumped into action, helping the truck driver unload my boxes, moving with practiced ease that belied his gentle nature. He lifted a heavy crate and set it inside without complaint, then went out of his way to buy a few groceries and some basics for cooking—little things that made the house feel less like a temporary shelter and more like a home.

As we worked, he moved with a lightness I hadn’t expected, making small jokes, teasing me about leaving random things behind, ruffling my hair in that same affectionate way he always had. Each gesture was a reminder that, despite everything, I wasn’t completely alone.