Chapter 1: Fate’s Mark on the Table

A few water stains, cold and shimmering like spilled moonlight, appeared out of nowhere on the old oak table in front of me. They crept outward in jagged circles, their edges glistening against the wood’s deep grooves, as if some invisible hand had traced them there. The air around them felt charged, colder than before, and for a moment, I could swear I heard a faint, whispering hum.

I froze, my fingers hovering over the table, as a chill ran down my spine. My breath caught, and I felt the prickle of goosebumps along my arms. The stains seemed almost alive, pulsing in the lamplight, demanding my attention.

I vaguely remembered the last time the Book of Fate appeared—it was when I first arrived in this world. The memory was sharp, like a sudden drop in temperature, and I shivered as the past pressed in on me.

Ten years had passed since that day. My reflection in the window showed a face changed by time and longing. Finally, the Book spoke to me again, its message as clear as ever.

Silver Hollow. Caleb Monroe. The names echoed in my mind, heavy with meaning. After memorizing those keywords, I wiped away the water stains, the cool droplets smearing beneath my palm, and calmly started packing for what felt like the last time.

The silence in my room felt heavy, broken only by the soft scrape of my suitcase zipper and the muffled thud of shoes being tucked away. My heart thudded in my chest—not with fear, but with a strange sense of finality, as if every sound marked an ending. I glanced at the faded wallpaper, tracing its swirling pattern with my eyes one last time, trying to imprint every detail before leaving it all behind.

At my vanity, I paused, staring at a silver hairpin gleaming softly in the dim light. My hand hovered above it, trembling ever so slightly. The ache in my chest tightened as memories flooded in.

After a long pause, I picked it up, feeling its cool weight in my palm, and tossed it out the window. My fingers shook, and my breath hitched as the gesture landed with more force than I intended.

I’d prepared it as a birthday gift for Marcus long ago—a symbol of hope that now felt hollow. I didn’t want to give it, and I didn’t want to take it with me either. The finality of my choice pressed against my ribs, making my chest feel tight.

Because I’d just seen Tessa Young leaving Marcus’s room, her legs unsteady, her cheeks flushed, and her hair mussed in a way that left little to the imagination. The way she clung to the doorframe, her lips swollen and her laughter too bright, told me everything I needed to know.

Clearly, Marcus had no time for gifts tonight. The message was written in every careless glance, every lingering touch.

Besides, every year he threw away my presents without a second thought. The memory stung, and my fingers curled around the windowsill as if bracing against the pain.

Rather than letting him trample my feelings again, it was better to discard it myself. The resolve settled in my bones, cold and sharp.

The hairpin landed in the overgrown grass below with a faint, metallic clink—a tiny sound swallowed by the night’s hush. I took a shaky breath, my shoulders trembling, and tried to convince myself that letting go was a kind of freedom. The ache in my chest lingered, a dull throb beneath my ribs, but I whispered to myself that I’d feel lighter soon. As I zipped my suitcase, a single question echoed in my mind: What comes next, now that fate has called me again?