Rise of Ember Quin

7

His POV

Alec Virelli moves through the dark with the practiced caution of someone who learned to go unnoticed before he learned to read. He stays three houses back as Ember runs, then two, then just beyond the reach of her shadow. When she throws her sandals into the grass, he marks the sound, the angle of her flight. He tracks her not because he wants to be close but because, for reasons he can’t explain even to himself, he’s afraid of what might happen if no one is.

He knows the feeling she’s running from—he’s worn it like a skin. The humiliation, the loneliness, the certainty that if you vanished, the world would keep spinning. He recognizes the posture of defeat: the way she bends forward, the wet glint of tears at her jawline, the fists clenched so tight her knuckles shine.

When she stumbles near the curb and almost goes down, he steps forward, ready to break cover, but she regains her balance and keeps moving. He slows, measures his breath, blends into the geometry of picket fences and trash bins and the black holes of unused driveways.

When she makes it to the county road, he veers off and uses the cut behind the hardware store—he’s mapped every shortcut in a five-mile radius. He’s waiting when she passes the playground, crouched behind a swing set, arms loose and still. He keeps his head down, hood up, face invisible.

He watches her pause, her body folding in on itself, then watches as she unfolds and continues. He follows, always ten paces behind, careful not to let his own shoes slap the pavement.

He sees her trip on the bottle cap, sees her almost go to her knees, and again he tenses—should he help? Would she want him to? He’s not sure she even knows his name. At school, she’s the girl with the quiet eyes, the weirdly sharp laugh, the one who draws on her hands when she thinks nobody’s looking.

He knows he’s not supposed to care. But he does.

He shadows her past the strip mall and the water tower, letting the distance between them shrink as her strength gives out. He watches her pace slow, the curve of her spine getting tighter, her steps uneven.

He stays in the ditch as she finally goes down near the oak, the same tree he’s used for cover a dozen times. He waits, eyes never leaving her, as she breaks apart in the grass. He hears the sobs, the animal keening that makes his own heart double-time in his chest. He wants to go to her, to say anything, to hand her a tissue or a drink or something stupid, but he’s not sure it would help.

He waits in the dark until the sobs die off and she goes still, just breathing. The moon catches the curve of her cheek and for a moment she looks made of marble, something fragile and holy.

He moves closer, slow and low, checking for cars, for any witness. When he’s ten feet away, he kneels and waits, listening to her breathing to make sure she hasn’t stopped altogether. He wants to reach out, but the rules he’s lived by—don’t draw attention, don’t meddle, don’t get attached—hold him back.

He notices her phone, dead and useless in the grass. He picks it up, wipes the dirt from the case, and lays it gently beside her hand, careful not to touch her skin.

He pulls from his hoodie pocket a single wrapped butterscotch, the kind his foster brother always hoarded and that Ember used to pick from the art room jar when she thought nobody was watching. He lays it next to the phone, then stands and backs away, slow and careful, until he’s sure she won’t wake.

He lingers for one last minute, making sure her chest rises and falls, that the world hasn’t somehow failed her in her sleep.

Then he disappears into the dark, silent and unseen, the only evidence of his presence a smudge of sneaker print and the sweet pressed into her palm by morning.