I wasn't supposed to speak to her yet. Elias had made that very clear.
But I wasn't good at waiting.
The next morning, I found her again — Ana Starling — sitting alone beneath a weeping willow by the lake, sketchbook on her lap, her pencil moving in light, ghostly strokes. She wore an oversized black cardigan and battered boots, clearly loved, clearly lived in. A girl built from shadows.
I approached slowly, letting the crunch of gravel announce me.
"Beautiful morning," I said, voice soft, nonthreatening.
She didn't look up. "Depends on who you are."
A beat.
"I'm Ms. Vale. New drama coach."
Still no reaction. Then: "They always come and go."
"I might stick around," I said. "If the students are interesting enough."
That got her attention. She lifted her head just slightly — and I saw them. Her eyes. Stormy blue-gray. Familiar. So much like—
"I saw your drawing," I said, pointing at the page.
She blinked, caught off guard. Then turned the book slightly to show me: a charcoal sketch of a marionette on fire. Strings frayed, burning mid-air. Haunting. Heartbreaking.
"Drama student?"
"Lead," she muttered. "They always cast me as the tragic one."
"They must see something powerful in you."
"They see what they want," she said with quiet steel. "Not what's real."
I sat on the bench across from her. Careful. Calm. I didn't dare ask the real question burning on my tongue — not yet. But I needed to test the waters.
"You remind me of someone I used to know."
"Let me guess," she said, finally looking at me full-on. "Sad girl. Ran away. Didn't make it out."
The hairs on my arms rose.
"How'd you know?"
Ana tilted her head. "Because that's what everyone's waiting for me to do too."
I swallowed. "And what if you don't want to run?"
She blinked slowly. "Then I need someone who'll teach me how to stay."
A pause. The breeze carried the soft rustle of willow leaves.
"I might know someone who can help with that," I whispered.
Her eyes narrowed, studying me now — not just looking, but seeing. There was something knowing in her gaze, a flicker of suspicion buried under curiosity.
"Who are you, really?"
I smiled gently. "Someone who understands what it's like to live in someone else's nightmare."
Her sketchbook closed. "You should go before someone sees."
I nodded, standing. But before I turned, I added, "My door's open. Studio 3B."
She said nothing. But as I walked away, I could feel it — the weight of her stare clinging to me like fog.
Something had cracked.
The girl by the lake was real.
And the storm behind her eyes? That wasn't fear.
It was fire.