Chapter 13 – Suspicion and Shards
Forks was grey, cold, and foggy—the kind of morning that made you want to burrow deeper into your blankets and refuse all responsibilities. But the alarm was relentless, and Charlie's muffled shout up the stairs, "You're gonna miss first period!" added guilt to the mix.
I peeled myself out of bed with a groan. The weekend had done its job; I didn't ache anymore, and the bruising had faded to something that wouldn't startle the locals. I grabbed my sketchbook off the nightstand, flipping to the last page I'd worked on. The tree from Damon's dream, the distant hills, his hand barely touching mine, and the split sun and moon above us—half shadow, half fire. I traced the edge of the crescent moon absently.
Shaking off the pull of memory, I got dressed in layers, swiped some mascara, and snagged a cold muffin from the fridge. Charlie handed me the keys without fanfare.
"Take it easy today," he said, giving my shoulder a rare squeeze.
I nodded. "I'll be fine."
He gave me a look that said I'll be the judge of that, but he let me go.
At school, the day unfolded with a kind of grim normalcy. The stares had mostly died down since the van incident, replaced by something more insidious—curiosity that simmered beneath the surface.
Edward Cullen was back at his usual table, surrounded by his adopted siblings. He didn't say a word, but his eyes followed me like they had their own gravitational pull.
Angela elbowed me as we sat. "The pale, broody one has a staring problem. Again."
"Maybe he's wondering if I glow in the dark too."
She snorted. "Forks High: where weird gets weirder."
I glanced back at the Cullen table, catching sight of Alice. Her lips curved into the faintest smile—a blink-and-you-miss-it kind of thing. I blinked.
"Did she just…?"
Angela followed my gaze. "Alice Cullen? She's nice. Kind of intense, though."
I nodded slowly, but my mind was already spiraling. Had she smiled at me? Was that real? Or did my brain want it to be?
Biology passed in uncomfortable silence.
Edward said nothing this time. No questions, no half-smiles. Just that same eerie stillness he always carried. Mr. Banner was back to his usual lectures, today about DNA replication and transcription. I focused on my notes, avoiding Edward's gaze, though I could feel it every time I moved.
He was trying not to scare me. I could tell. But the effort just made him seem more… unnatural.
When the bell rang, he didn't look at me. Just packed up his bag and left.
Fine by me.
Back home, I found a weather-worn crate on the porch. My name was scrawled across the top in Renee's rushed handwriting, postmarked from Phoenix.
Inside were some old family things—faded photos, lace doilies, brittle greeting cards. At the bottom was a cloth-bound journal, the edges cracked with age.
I flipped it open.
The first page read: Eleanor Marie Parker – 1949.
My grandmother's sister.
The entries were erratic. Strange. Most were ramblings about dreams and symbols. There were drawings too—trees, faces half in shadow, moons split in two. A few had notations: Recurring. Feels real. Is real?
A chill traced down my spine.
It was like she'd seen what I was seeing. Felt what I was feeling.
Maybe I wasn't the first in my family to dream-walk.
That Night – Dream-walk
The dream opened slowly, as if easing into itself. The air was crisp, clean. I stood on the edge of a cliffside overlooking rolling hills kissed with gold.
Damon sat nearby, legs outstretched, a travel bag slung beside him. His coat billowed faintly in the breeze, and for a long while, he said nothing.
I didn't either. I just walked over and sat beside him.
The wind tugged at strands of my hair, and the silence wrapped around us like a blanket.
"I'm starting to think," I said finally, "that I'm not just dreaming."
Damon tilted his head but didn't speak.
"I found a journal," I continued. "From my great-aunt. She wrote about dreams like this. Like us. Drawings, places I've seen… people who don't belong to her time."
"That's not just magic," Damon said quietly. "That's fate. The kind with teeth."
I turned toward him. "Do you feel it too? That this isn't coincidence?"
He nodded. "I started waiting for you. Leaving gaps in my day, expecting you'd show up. I plan for you now."
I swallowed hard. "I think this is building toward something. Like we're heading to the same point in time. When we both… need it most."
He exhaled slowly. "That would be a hell of a thing."
Then he did something unexpected. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small silver button—old, worn, Confederate. "This was mine. The last thing I gave by brother before I left home, heading off to a war I didn't want to fight."
I didn't ask if they'd fought. The sadness in his voice said enough.
"I keep it because it's the one thing I don't want lose. I've lost him to his bloodlust, I can't lose the memory of the boy I helped raise."
I reached for his hand this time. He let me take it.
"You're not alone," I whispered.
He smiled faintly. "Neither are you."
We sat like that until the dream began to fade.
"We're getting closer," I whispered.
"I'll be ready when we do."
Tuesday Morning
I woke with the ache of parting still clinging to my chest. Quietly, I slipped out of bed and pulled my sketchbook from the drawer.
I sketched the cliffside, the travel bag, the silver button in his palm.
Then I flipped back to the tree—the one from the earlier dream—and froze.
The ink looked faded.
Older.
Like part of it had been touched by time.
Like something—or someone—had kept it with them.
I stared at the page for a long moment, then added one more note to the margin:
Are you holding my memory too?