The sunlight through the diner window hits their table at an angle, making the three glasses of water catch the light. Ava Montgomery watches the light dance across the table's laminate surface, noticing how strange it looks today. Their tradition of sharing birthday cake at Maple Street Diner stretches back to middle school, when their parents first allowed them this small independence. Now, on their seventeenth birthday, it feels both familiar and somehow fragile, like something's about to change.
"Earth to Ava." Liam leaned in, frowning slightly. Liam's voice breaks through her thoughts. His blue eyes narrow slightly, that protective instinct of his already activating. "You've been staring at that water glass for a full minute."
"Sorry." Ava snapped out of it, brushing her hair behind her ear. "Just thinking about how many birthdays we've had here."
Sophie adjusts her glasses, She adjusted her glasses, as she always did when she was thinking. "Seven, if you count today. Though technically, the first one wasn't on the actual day of our birthday because my mom had that conference."
The waitress approaches their booth, carrying a chocolate cake with three candles already lit. The flames waver slightly in the air conditioning, casting tiny, dancing shadows across the frosting. Ava smiles her thanks as the woman sets it down, but her attention catches on something beneath the neighboring table—something about the shadow beneath it feels... wrong. It stretches too far, too sharp at the edges—like it doesn't belong.efined, almost sharp-edged against the checkered floor.
"Happy birthday, you three," the waitress says, her voice warm with the familiarity that comes from years of serving the same customers. "Still can't believe you all share the same birthday. What are the odds?"
"About one in 133,225," Sophie answers immediately, then blushes when the waitress blinks in surprise. "Sorry. I calculated it once."
Liam laughs, the sound easy and comfortable. "And that's why we keep her around. Statistical improbability in human form."
The waitress smiles and leaves them to their celebration. Sophie immediately reaches for the cake knife, her movements precise as she measures the angles for a perfect three-way split. Her honey-blonde curls fall forward, and she impatiently pushes them back with the back of her wrist to maintain the cleanliness of her hands.
"You cut that cake like you're aiming a free throw—dead on," Liam teases, leaning back against the vinyl booth. His athletic frame takes up more space than necessary, one arm stretched along the back of the seat.
Sophie doesn't look up from her task. "If you'd prefer your piece to be 32.7% instead of 33.3%, I can accommodate that request."
Ava smiles at the familiar banter, but her gaze drifts back to the shadows under the neighboring table. They seem to reach farther than they should, given the angle of the afternoon sun. She blinks, and they look normal again.
"Three people born on the same day—about a 0.8 percent chance." Sophie slides perfectly identical slices onto their plates. "And then to actually become friends? The statistical improbability is actually quite remarkable."
"Yeah, because that's what drew us together. Statistical improbability," Liam says, rolling his eyes. "Not the fact that our moms put us in the same playgroup because they worked together."
"The universe works in mysterious ways," Ava says, but her voice sounds distant even to herself. The shadows under their own table now seem to be stretching toward her feet, though neither of her friends appears to notice.
Sophie straightens the fork beside her plate, aligning it precisely with the edge of the table. "Speaking of working, did either of you finish the summer reading for Henderson's AP Lit class? I've got three books left and only two weeks."
"I'm halfway through the last one," Liam says. "Though I don't see why we need to read five books before senior year even starts."
"College applications," both girls say in unison, then share a smile.
"Don't remind me." Liam groans, dragging a hand through his short dark hair. "My dad keeps leaving Stanford brochures on my desk. Like, subtlety isn't his strong suit."
"You could get in," Ava says, knowing how Liam's swimming times have been catching attention from college scouts. "Your butterfly is under the qualifying time now."
"Maybe." He shrugs, uncomfortable with the praise as always. "What about you two? Still the East Coast plan?"
Sophie nods. "MIT early decision for me. Though my backup is Carnegie Mellon."
"Of course it is," Liam says, shaking his head with mock resignation.
Ava forces herself to participate in the conversation even as her attention keeps getting pulled to the shadows. "I'm still deciding. Maybe Brown? I like their open curriculum."
The shadows beneath their table shift again, and this time Ava is certain it's not her imagination. They deepen suddenly, becoming almost velvety in their darkness, like ink spreading across the floor. A chill runs across her skin.
"What about this summer?" Sophie asks, oblivious to Ava's distraction. "We should do something before we all get buried in applications. Maybe that camping trip we talked about last year but never did?"
"I'm game," Liam says. "The spot by Miller's Creek is perfect this time of year."
Ava nods, trying to focus on her friends and not on the way the afternoon light now seems different—sharper somehow, as if someone has adjusted the contrast on the world. The shadows under the table look almost solid, with edges too defined to be natural.
"Hey," Liam says, his voice dropping as he leans in. "Remember when we tried camping in Sophie's backyard and her dad's motion lights kept turning on every time a leaf blew by?"
Sophie laughs. "And you were convinced it was a bear?"
"I was nine!" Liam protests. "And those woods back up to the state park. It could have been a bear."
The memory should make Ava smile, but the feeling of wrongness intensifies. The light filtering through the window catches dust motes in the air, but they hang suspended too long, as if moving through something thicker than air.
"Ava?" Sophie's voice breaks through her thoughts. "You're quiet today."
"Sorry," Ava says again, wrapping her arms around herself in that unconscious protective gesture she's had since childhood. "I'm just... do you notice anything weird about the shadows?"
Both her friends glance down, then back at her with matching expressions of confusion.
"They look like shadows," Liam says, that protective note returning to his voice. "Why? What do you see?"
"Nothing," Ava says quickly, not wanting to ruin their birthday with her strange observations. "Just thought they looked different for a second. Probably just the light."
But as her friends return to discussing summer plans, Ava can't shake the feeling that something fundamental has shifted around them, like reality itself has developed a hairline crack. The shadows continue to look wrong to her, too sharp and somehow attentive, as if they're waiting for something.
Make a wish," Sophie says, her analytical nature momentarily giving way to tradition. The three candles flicker between them, small planets of light that cast strange shadows across their faces. Ava meets her friends' eyes—Liam's steady blue, Sophie's calculating hazel—and feels that familiar connection that has defined so much of her life. She leans forward with them, their heads creating a triangle above the flame, and wonders absently if wishes made on shared birthdays carry more weight.
"On three?" Liam suggests, his voice softening in that way it does when rituals matter more to him than he wants to admit.
Sophie nods, her curls bouncing slightly. "One, two..."
They inhale together, a synchronized movement born from years of shared moments. The candle flames dance higher for a moment, as if reluctant to be extinguished. Ava focuses on her wish—something vague about clarity in the coming year—and blows.
The flames vanish in a synchronized puff of smoke. In that exact moment, a cold sensation sweeps through Ava's body, starting at the crown of her head and trickling down her spine like ice water. It's so sudden and intense that she gasps slightly, her fingers gripping the edge of the table.
"You okay?" Sophie asks, already reaching for the cake knife again.
"Fine," Ava manages, but her attention has already shifted to the diner window beside their booth. In the glass, their reflections waver and distort, like images seen through rippling water. The three teenage shapes blur at the edges, their features momentarily indistinct. As Ava watches, her own reflection seems to lag a fraction of a second behind her movements, as if reluctant to follow.
She glances at her friends' faces, searching for any sign that they notice the strangeness, but Liam is already cutting into his slice of cake, and Sophie is wiping a spot of frosting from the table with mathematical precision.
"So what did you wish for?" Liam asks, directing the question at both of them as he takes his first bite.
Ava's mouth opens, but words fail her as she watches their reflections continue to move oddly in the window glass. Her reflection's mouth doesn't match her own movements.
Sophie fills the silence. "You know the rules. Sharing wishes prevents them from coming true." Her voice carries the certainty of someone reciting a scientific principle rather than a superstition. "Though statistically speaking, the fulfillment rate of birthday wishes probably hovers around the same percentage as random chance anyway."
"You're such a romantic," Liam teases, nudging Sophie's elbow with his own.
Ava feels goosebumps rising along her arms, a wave of them spreading upward from her wrists to her shoulders. The temperature in the diner seems to have dropped several degrees, though neither of her friends appears affected. Her breath catches in her throat as she watches their reflections finally settle back into normal mirroring movements, the strange rippling effect fading away as if it had never been there.
"Did you—" she starts, then stops herself. Her voice sounds different to her own ears, slightly hollow.
Liam looks up, fork halfway to his mouth. "Did we what?"
Ava forces herself to take a bite of cake, but it tastes like nothing in her mouth. The chill lingers in her body, stubbornly refusing to dissipate despite the warmth of the diner. She becomes aware of her own heartbeat, slightly too rapid beneath her ribs.
"Nothing," she says, setting her fork down. Her fingers have begun their nervous pattern-tracing on the tabletop, drawing invisible spirals and loops. She tries to stop them, but the movement feels compulsive, necessary.
Sophie's analytical gaze sweeps over her. "Your pupils are dilated," she observes. "Are you feeling alright? It could be a mild vasovagal response to the sugar."
"I'm fine," Ava says automatically, but Liam's eyes narrow. He's known her too long to be fooled by the dismissal.
"You've been off since we got here," he says, his voice dropping enough that only their table can hear. "What's going on?"
Ava hesitates, torn between her desire to maintain the normalcy of their birthday tradition and the persistent wrongness she feels. Her hand rises unconsciously to tuck her hair behind her ear, but she pauses when she sees her reflection in the window make the gesture a beat too slowly.
"It's like the light here is sharpened somehow," she finally says, keeping her voice low. "Do you feel that?"
Liam and Sophie exchange a glance that Ava recognizes—the one they share when they're worried about her but trying not to show it.
"The light looks normal to me," Sophie says, glancing toward the window. "Though there is a frontal system moving in this afternoon. The barometric pressure changes could be causing some visual distortion or affecting your inner ear." She says it kindly, without condescension, offering the explanation as a gift.
Liam studies Ava's face more carefully, that protective instinct clearly warring with his desire not to overreact. "Maybe you're coming down with something? You look a little pale."
"Maybe," Ava agrees, grateful for the potential explanation even as she knows it doesn't account for what she's experiencing. She takes a deliberate sip of water, using the moment to glance again at the window. Their reflections appear completely normal now, mimicking their movements with perfect synchronization. The shadows under the table have retreated to their proper proportions, and the light filtering through the window has lost that strange, sharpened quality.
"Sorry," she adds, attempting a smile. "I didn't mean to get weird on our birthday."
"Please," Sophie says, her voice lightening, "weird is our default setting. Remember last year when Liam insisted we all touch the old Bell house at midnight because of that stupid legend?"
"It wasn't stupid," Liam protests, clearly relieved by the change in conversation. "My cousin swore that touching the cornerstone on your birthday grants you luck for the whole year."
"And how was your luck?" Sophie asks pointedly.
"I didn't break my ankle until February, so pretty good for at least a month."
Their familiar banter continues, wrapping around Ava like a comfortable blanket. She joins in, forcing herself to participate even as part of her attention remains vigilant for any further strangeness. They begin discussing plans for the rest of their birthday—a movie at Liam's house, pizza delivery, the ritual watching of whatever terrible horror film Sophie has selected for them this year.
As her friends debate the merits of extra cheese versus extra pepperoni, Ava steals one more glance at their reflections in the window. The three seventeen-year-olds in the glass are perfectly ordinary, their movements aligned with reality. But something about the quality of the light behind them, the depth of the shadows in the reflected diner, still seems subtly wrong to her.
She turns away, focusing on cutting another bite of her cake, and decides not to mention it again. Not today. Today is for birthday wishes and traditions, for the comfort of these friendships that have defined her life. Whatever strange thing happened when they blew out those candles, she can worry about it tomorrow.
As Ava joins in the laughter, her eyes sparkling at Liam's exaggerated impression of their history teacher, a tug of something less joyful nearly draws her under. The sensation leaves an unsettling echo, even as she shoves it away to stay present with her friends. She wants to soak in this normalcy, this warmth, yet the feeling of a shadow hovering at the edges of her awareness makes it hard. It's as if an unseen presence had shifted with them, watching from some dark place that Ava can't quite ignore. She catches herself glancing at her friends' faces, checking for any sign that they feel it too, but they seem blissfully unaware. She tries not to let her voice betray the creeping chill inside her as they debate the merits of extra cheese versus extra pepperoni, pulling her focus back to the moment with an effort.
Even as she joins in, Ava knows she's only half-successful at drowning out the strange, persistent wrongness. Her fingers continue their restless pattern-tracing long after she's set her fork aside. She suppresses a shiver as Liam finishes his slice of cake with dramatic enthusiasm, as if the act of eating itself is a declaration of normalcy. "Food network called," he says, waving his fork toward the cake, "they want to know your secret recipe." His joking feels like an anchor to reality, yet Ava can't shake the feeling that something essential has unmoored around her.
The warmth of the diner fades as they step outside into the cool night air, a brief silence falling as the door swings shut behind them. Streetlights flicker with a harsh, yellow glow—less steady than usual, Ava thinks, though she knows she's likely imagining it. The stillness of the town at this hour seems different somehow, amplified by that lingering chill in her bones. They walk down the quiet street toward home, and she finds herself scanning the shadows for movement. The creeping sense that something shifted during the seconds when the candles extinguished lingers, and Ava wonders if thinking about it so much is what makes it feel real. She shivers again, the temperature much colder than she expected for early summer.
Unable to stop herself, Ava glances back at the diner window, expecting to see at least a glimmer of the strange reflections that had disturbed her inside. But the glass stays opaque and normal, revealing nothing but the ordinary light of the diner and the silhouettes of other patrons. She wonders if her openness to the supernatural, her willingness to see what others don't, is why she always feels these things so intensely. But why tonight? Why at this moment, when she most wanted to let go and just enjoy being with her friends? The idea that an unseen presence had noticed them is unsettling enough. More disturbing is the creeping suspicion that it had singled her out.
A chill runs down her spine at the thought, mingling with her unease about what lurks just beyond their understanding. She falls a step behind, quiet now, her mind circling around the unanswered questions that trail after them through the darkened streets.