The first thing Amara noticed was the silence.
Not the peaceful kind.
Not the calm kind.
This silence pressed down on her chest, thick and heavy, like the air itself was holding its breath.
Red and blue lights washed over the wet pavement, flickering against the police station walls. Rain fell steadily now, soaking everything, blurring the edges of the world. The night smelled like metal, rainwater, and something wrong.
The car came to a stop.
For half a second, Amara didn't move.
And then it hit her.
Not gently.
Not gradually.
It crashed into her mind like ice water.
Waylon Forge.
Her stomach dropped so violently she almost felt sick.
Oh God.
She had forgotten.
Not because she didn't care.
Not because she was heartless.
But because she had been distracted by safety—by Bella, by Edward, by making sure nothing happened right now. She hadn't read the books. She didn't know every detail, every name carved into tragedy.
Waylon had been… small. Quiet. Easy to overlook.
And now he was gone.
Her fingers curled tightly into her sleeves.
I forgot him.
The thought made her chest ache.
The door opened, rain immediately soaking her hair and shoulders. Bella stepped out beside her, already tense, already afraid. Edward followed, eyes sharp, jaw clenched.
Then Carlisle approached them.
His expression was calm—too calm—but his eyes carried weight.
"Bella," he said gently. Then his gaze shifted to Amara. "Amara… it's Waylon."
The name landed like a blow.
"Chief Swan will need you girls," Carlisle continued softly. "They believe it was an animal attack."
Animal attack.
Amara didn't say a word.
She didn't ask questions.
Didn't react.
But inside her mind, something went cold.
It wasn't an animal.
She knew that.
Carlisle knew it.
Edward knew it.
Lucien knew it.
A vampire had done this.
Human life, ended casually. Quickly. Like it was nothing.
For the first time since she arrived in this world, the romance shattered.
The warmth.
The charm.
The safety she had pretended existed.
This world wasn't gentle.
It never had been.
She had just forgotten.
Rain slid down her face as she followed Bella into the police station, her steps slow, heavy. The doors opened with a soft mechanical sound that felt too loud.
Inside, the lights were harsh. White. Unforgiving.
And there—
Charlie.
He sat hunched in a chair near a desk, shoulders sagging, hands clasped together like he didn't know what else to do with them. His uniform looked too big on him somehow. Like it belonged to someone stronger.
Someone untouched.
His eyes were red.
Not angry red.
Not fierce red.
Broken red.
Bella froze for a split second before rushing forward.
"Dad…"
Charlie lifted his head.
For one brief, devastating moment, Amara saw it clearly—recognition tangled with helplessness, a man who had spent his life being the protector suddenly unsure of how to stand.
"Bells," Charlie whispered, his voice rough, scraped raw by grief.
Bella wrapped her arms around him immediately, holding on like if she let go, he might fall apart entirely. Charlie's arms came around her stiffly at first, uncertain, like he didn't trust himself—then tightened, crushing her to his chest.
His breath hitched.
Once.
Twice.
Then it broke.
Amara stood there, heart splintering.
She had seen Charlie annoyed. Stern. Protective in that quiet, steady way that came from years of duty and responsibility.
She had never seen him small.
"Waylon's gone," Charlie murmured, the words slipping out like they physically hurt. "Just… gone."
Bella shook against him, pressing her face into his shoulder, silent tears soaking into his jacket.
Amara stepped closer, slower this time, like she was afraid of breaking something already cracked beyond repair. She hesitated—then gently wrapped her arms around Charlie too, pressing into his side, her hand resting over his back.
For a second, Charlie startled.
Then his arms came around both of them.
Not tightly.
Not protectively.
Desperately.
As if these two girls were the only things anchoring him to the ground, to breathing, to staying upright.
"I'm so sorry," Amara whispered, her voice barely there. "I'm so, so sorry."
The words felt useless. Tiny. Powerless.
But she stayed.
Charlie's head dipped, his forehead resting briefly against Bella's hair as his shoulders shook. When he finally looked at Amara, his eyes were red-rimmed, glassy, lost in a way no uniform or badge could hide.
"He was my friend," he said quietly. "We fished together. Every summer. He used to bring you girls candy—said you'd grow up too fast if he didn't spoil you."
His voice cracked completely this time.
"He watched you grow up."
Tears slipped free then, unrestrained, carving their way down his face.
Amara swallowed hard.
I forgot you, she thought painfully.
And I'm so sorry.
She didn't pull away. She didn't look aside. She stayed there, holding him, offering the only thing she had left—her warmth, her presence, her humanity.
And something inside her… shifted.
It wasn't loud.
It wasn't dramatic.
It was quiet—so quiet she didn't even notice it happening.
Deep in her chest, beneath the guilt, beneath the ache of helplessness, something stirred. Not fear. Not panic.
Resolve.
A need.
A desperate, aching wish that this pain would ease, even just a little.
Without her realizing it, something invisible unfurled from her—soft as breath, warm as sunlight breaking through winter clouds. It flowed gently through her arms, through her hands, into Charlie.
Not forceful.
Not overwhelming.
Just… kind.
The ache in Charlie's chest eased, just slightly. The tightness in his shoulders loosened. The cold that had sunk into his bones from hours of shock and rain faded into a gentle warmth, like sitting near a quiet fire. His body, worn from years of duty and tonight's grief, found a moment of relief.
Charlie exhaled.
A deep one.
He didn't understand why he suddenly felt steadier. Why his hands stopped trembling quite so badly. Why breathing didn't hurt as much.
He thought it was the hug.
Bella's arms.
Amara's warmth.
He clung to them both a little tighter, believing—reasonably—that human comfort was doing what it always did best.
Amara didn't notice either.
And Amara never realized it.
She didn't feel a surge of power.
Didn't hear a voice.
Didn't sense anything activate the way stories promised magic should.
All she felt was grief… guilt… and a helpless desire to make the pain stop.
What she didn't know—what no one in that room knew—was that this was the first time her power had reached beyond herself.
Before tonight, her powers and perks protected Amara had always worked quietly, inwardly—bending luck, healing Amara body,softening danger, keeping her safe without effort or awareness.
But this time was different.
This time, it moved outward.
Not because she wanted power.
Not because she chose it.
But because she cared.
Because she was holding a broken man and wishing—desperately—that he didn't have to hurt so much.
That was enough.
The warmth Charlie felt.
The easing in his chest.
The steadiness returning to his breath.
That wasn't just comfort.
It was healing.
Gentle. Instinctive. Unconscious.
Amara didn't notice the moment it happened. She would only remember later that Charlie seemed to breathe easier in her arms, that the shaking slowed, that the night didn't feel quite as cold.
She would tell herself it was coincidence.
That grief simply loosened its grip.
She was wrong.
This was the first time her power touched another soul.
And it would not be the last.
But for now, she stood there unaware—just a human girl in the rain, holding onto what little warmth she had—
She was too busy holding on, too busy feeling guilty, too busy wishing she could do more.
That's when she felt it.
A gaze.
She turned her head slightly.
Lucien stood near the doorway, rainwater still clinging to his coat, his posture calm but unmoving. His expression was different now—no playful curve of lips, no teasing glint. Just something quiet. Something old.
Something sharp beneath the calm.
Understanding.
Their eyes met.
For a split second, something unreadable flickered in his gaze—surprise, perhaps, or recognition—but it vanished just as quickly. He offered her a small, gentle smile.
Not to fix anything.
Not to promise safety.
Just to say: I see you.
Nearby, Carlisle spoke in low, steady tones to Edward, who looked like he was vibrating with restrained fury. Edward's hands were clenched tight at his sides, jaw locked, his whispers sharp enough to cut—rage barely leashed.
Carlisle rested a calming hand on his shoulder, murmuring something controlled, composed—words meant to hold the line between justice and disaster.
Lucien didn't even glance at them.
His focus stayed on Amara.
Because right now, their arguments didn't matter.
What mattered was this room.
This grief.
This unbearable truth.
On one side stood the Cullens.
Immortal.
Unaging.
Unbreakable.
Beings who could outrun death, undo violence, and still walk away untouched.
On the other side stood the Swans.
Human.
Fragile.
Bleeding quietly.
Bella clung to her father.
Charlie broke in silence, powerless in a world that would keep taking from him without explanation.
And Amara stood between them, soaked to the bone, arms wrapped around a grieving man—realizing something she had been avoiding since the moment she arrived in this world:
Humans didn't stand a chance.
Not really.
Not against monsters that walked unseen through the night.
What she didn't know—what she couldn't yet understand—was that this truth would not always apply to her.
That before her, no vampire or supernatural force would stand a chance.
That something ancient, rare, and impossibly gentle had begun to awaken inside her.
Tonight, it moved for the first time—not in anger, not in power—
but in compassion.
This world was beautiful, yes—
but it was also cruel.
And tonight, under flickering lights and quiet sobs, it reminded her exactly how fragile a human life truly was…
and how dangerous it would be, someday, to harm someone she loved.
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