The morning of prom dawned brighter than it had any right to. Lyra woke to golden light slanting across her bruised arms and a still, aching silence in her room. Her uncle had passed out hours ago, and the air reeked of stale liquor and old bitterness.
She dressed quickly, quietly, slipping out the door like a whisper.
By late morning, she stood once more on the steps of the Marchenko home.
And they were waiting.
Three hours of transformation began. Three intense, glorious hours of laughing, spinning, makeup and fabric, giggles and curls.
The sisters flitted around her like butterflies, tossing fabrics through the air and holding earrings against her ears.
"Try the blue one!"
"No, gold! Her eyes light up in gold."
"Wait, hold still, I need to fix that curl…"
But nothing felt right.
Nothing felt hers.
Until she saw it.
Hanging quietly at the back of the wardrobe, a shadow among color.
It was black. Deep, inky black. Long-sleeved, with lace that dusted down her arms and around the ends like midnight smoke. The skirt pooled like liquid ink, and the neckline dipped just low enough to whisper rather than shout.
It wasn't trendy. It wasn't sequined.
It was something else.
"That one," she whispered.
The room hushed.
His mother exchanged glances with the girls but said only, "My mother made that. Long time ago."
No one told her it had been passed down for over sixty years.
No one told her it was sacred.
They just helped her zip it up.
And when she turned toward the mirror, something caught in her throat.
For the first time in her life, she didn't look broken.
She looked like a secret.
---
Prom was loud.
The gym had transformed into a riot of light and sound. Neon balloons lined the ceiling. Streamers spilled like vines. Music boomed from every wall, rattling through the floor.
Students danced like they had only this night to live. The girls wore fire and glitter. The boys had slicked-back hair and awkward grins.
But when Lyra walked in, everything shifted.
Heads turned.
Conversations stumbled.
She walked beside Elias, his dark suit sharp and his eyes even sharper. But it was her they couldn't stop staring at.
The girl in the black lace dress.
The ghost come to dance.
Some of the boys' mouths parted.
Some of the mean girls squinted, trying to remember if they'd ever seen her before.
Amanda Vale's smile froze in place. Talia Reed elbowed Cassie hard.
Elias leaned in and said with a grin, "Told you they wouldn't know what hit them."
She tried to smile.
Tried to dance.
But something inside her stayed still.
Like she wasn't meant to be here.
The lights were too bright.
The laughter too loud.
The touches—accidental brushes of shoulders, fingers, elbows—made her flinch.
Thirty minutes in, she stepped away.
Elias noticed. Followed.
"You okay?"
She nodded too quickly. "I just… I can't. I don't belong here."
He reached out. She flinched again.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, and then she turned and left.
---
The night air bit her skin as she walked. Her heels clicked on the empty road. Her head felt light.
She'd only had one lemonade.
One.
But the world wobbled around the edges. Her vision blurred. Her body turned soft.
Her knees buckled.
And then a voice, soft and strange, like silk dipped in smoke.
"Careful now, dove. We wouldn't want you cracking that lovely face of yours."
She looked up.
A boy—no, not a boy—stood above her. Tall. Pale. With eyes like melting mercury. He wore a suit that didn't belong to this century, and when he smiled, it was too still. Too sharp.
He helped her stand with one hand, barely touching.
"Are you lost, my dear?" he asked.
"I… I think I was drugged," she slurred.
He frowned slightly. "Children these days. So careless with their cups."
"Who are you?"
He bowed, a flourish of wrist and charm. "Damon. Just Damon. A passerby. A connoisseur of lost things."
His voice was old. Touched with accents she didn't know.
He walked beside her, slowly. And though she staggered, she felt steadier near him.
"Why are you helping me?" she asked.
He smiled, but not kindly. "Because, little ghost, you looked like a secret someone was trying to steal."
"I'm not special."
His eyes flicked to hers.
"No," he said, and his voice dropped like a stone into still water. "You're not."
She flinched.
He leaned closer, his breath cold.
"But you could be."
And then he was gone.
Just gone.
She blinked, stumbled forward, and realized she was almost home.
The house loomed ahead. The storm had not come yet.
But inside her, something had begun to stir.