1 Isabella. There's a special kind of humiliation that sticks to your skin no matter how many times you shower. I've taken six in the last twenty-four hours, and I still feel it crawling under my clothes like an army of ants. The rain didn't help either. By the time I pulled up to the edge of Willow Creek, the storm had gone from a polite drizzle to a full-on biblical downpour. My windshield wipers were doing the absolute most and still failing, and the GPS on my phone had frozen just as I reached the turnoff for something called "Mosswood Lane." Which, for the record, sounded more like the setting of a low-budget horror movie than a peaceful writing retreat. The cottage appeared through the mist like it wasn't totally convinced it wanted to be seen. The roof sloped low on one side, the stone chimney was missing a few bricks, and the front porch sagged. Vines had taken over the front wall like nature was trying to reclaim it. The whole place looked like it had once belonged to someone's sweet great-aunt who may or may not have been a hedge witch. I loved it instantly. I parked the car, my loyal, slightly traumatized Honda Civic, right outside the crooked gate, turned off the engine, and took a moment to sit there in the silence. Or what passed for silence, considering the rain was still assaulting the roof like it had a personal vendetta. "You did it," I whispered to myself. "You actually left." It didn't feel triumphant. Not yet, but still, it felt enough. I grabbed my overnight bag which was just the essentials, and made a run for the porch. The front door was painted forest green, chipped in places, with a brass knocker shaped like a fox. The keys were tucked in a ceramic frog beside the door, exactly where the property manager said they'd be. Inside, the place smelled like dust, lemon wood polish, and a little bit of old books. "Hello?" I called out. Old habits. Nothing answered, which was both reassuring and a little sad. The living room was cozy, in a "this used to be cute thirty years ago" kind of way. Floral curtains, a fireplace that begged to be used, and an old couch that looked like it had seen some things. I flicked on a lamp. It didn't come on. Right. Power. I found the fuse box near the back door and flipped the main switch. The light overhead flickered, then steadied. Back in the living room, I kicked off my soaked shoes, dropped my bag, and collapsed onto the couch. I let my eyes close for a moment, listening to the rain pound against the roof like it was trying to shake the house awake. I could've stayed like that for hours, but life had other plans. When I went back out to grab the rest of my things from the car, I got exactly three feet before the unmistakable sound of a tire giving up on life reached my ears. I looked down at the front left wheel. Flat. Of course. "Perfect," I muttered, pulling my hoodie tighter around me as the rain doubled in intensity just to make a point. I dropped my box of toiletries on the porch, grabbed a flashlight from the glove box, and knelt to get a look at the damage. Mud squelched beneath my knees. The flashlight was weak and flickering like it was auditioning for a haunted house job. I was drenched, freezing, and completely out of my depth when headlights cut through the storm behind me. A slow-moving truck rumbled down the lane and pulled up beside my car. The driver's side window rolled down with an old mechanical groan. "Need a hand?" His voice was calm and deep, like the rain didn't affect him the way it was affecting me, and probably the whole town. I stood up too fast and nearly slipped. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, I guess I do." The man stepped out of the truck and into the rain without a hood, like a complete psychopath. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and the kind of handsome you notice even when you're ankle-deep in mud and self-pity. His brown hair was plastered to his forehead, he had a sharp jawline and grey eyes that looked like they could see through people if they wanted to. He didn't smile or introduce himself as he crouched next to my car and inspected the tire like this was something he'd don a thousand times. "I have a spare," I offered. He nodded once. "Good." In silence, he set to work. I stood awkwardly beside him, feeling completely useless and weirdly exposed. After a minute, I said, "I swear this car has been fine until today. Guess she didn't like the move." He glanced up at me, rain dripping down his cheekbones. "Big move?" "You could say that." More silence. I fidgeted. "I'm Isabella, by the way." He didn't respond right away. Then he said very quietly, "Noah." Just that. Noah. "Well, thanks, Noah. Seriously. You're kind of saving my ass here." He didn't look up again. He kept working. I got the sense he wasn't used to talking to people, or maybe he just didn't want to. Still, there was something oddly calming about the controlled way he moved. He tightened the last lug nut, stood, and gave the tire a once-over. "You're good." "Wow. That was fast." He shrugged. "Not my first time." I laughed a little, more out of nerves than amusement. "Well, I owe you." "No need." He started back toward his truck. I felt like I should say more, like ask something or offer him a towel, or at least invite him in for a warm drink like a sane human would, but he was already getting in the truck. The engine roared to life, and the taillights lit up the mist as he backed away down the lane. I stood there watching until he disappeared behind the trees. Back inside, I dried off and changed into pajamas, then lit a few candles since the lighting was dim and the storm didn't seem like it was letting up anytime soon. Noah. The name stuck in my mind over and over again. I couldn't figure out why. He hadn't said much, hadn't even looked at me for more than a second. But something about him- No. I should the thought out of my head. Not now. I opened my laptop and pulled up a blank document. I stared at the blinking cursor for a few minutes. The urge to write was there, but I just couldn't get myself to start. Maybe I was just... scared? I started typing. The rain hadn't stopped for days. She arrived soaked to the bone, her suitcase in one hand and her dignity somewhere in the trunk. The man who found her on the road said his name like it was a secret, and she didn't ask for more. She was too tired to be curious about it. I paused. Noah, huh? I smiled, then I kept typing.

3Isabella. I knew I should've bought thicker curtains. The ones in my bedroom were thin, beige, and flimsy, the kind you hang up when you don't expect to have neighbors or prying eyes. Which I didn't. But I also didn't expect how loud the trees would be when the wind picked up. They scratched the window like they wanted in. I turned over in bed and stared at the ceiling. My phone glowed from the nightstand beside me. 2:14 AM. The cottage creaked like it was complaining about its age. Or maybe it was just settling. That's what people said, right? Old houses settle. Unfortunately, so do bad thoughts. I closed my eyes and tried to focus on the sound of my breathing, which was harder than it should've been considering I'd read every listicle on "calming nighttime rituals" known to man. I'd already done a warm shower, peppermint tea, five minutes of guided meditation (which was really just a woman whispering about moonlight and inner peace), and still. wide awake. That stupid knock from earlier, not even a real knock, just a wind-slammed branch, had jolted me straight into heart-thudding alertness. And now, everything sounded like footsteps. I rolled over again, hugged the pillow tighter, and pulled the blanket up over my ears like I was six and afraid of monsters. Which, apparently, I still was. There's something about lying in an unfamiliar house at night that makes your brain invent entire horror movies. My thoughts had cycled through home invasion, axe murderer, and vengeful ghost of a former tenant in the span of ten minutes. And the worst part was, I couldn't decide which was more likely. I was half a second away from grabbing the flashlight when I heard a soft thump outside the window again. Not the scratch of a branch this time. A pressure, like someone was leaning against the wall just below the glass. I froze. Every inch of my skin lit up with alert. Noah. No. Don't be ridiculous. He wouldn't just show up outside my bedroom window in the middle of the night. That's a vampire thing. Or a peeping tom thing. Either way, not Noah. Probably. I reached for my phone again and turned on the flashlight, then got up and tiptoed to the window. There was nothing in the yard. I pressed my palm to the cold glass. The sound must've come from something stupid like a raccoon or a deer. Or maybe a squirrel. I told myself to go back to bed. I was being dramatic. Sleep-deprived and dramatic. But my nerves weren't listening. I curled back into bed and stared at the ceiling again. And then, I fell asleep eventually. *** There were lights. Bright and blinding lights. I was standing on a red carpet, wearing a dress I didn't remember putting on. Around me, people in suits waved microphones and shouted questions I couldn't understand. Cameras clicked. A woman leaned in with a mic and said, "Did you steal the manuscript, Isabella?" My heart pounded. I opened my mouth to answer and Nadia appeared. Hair perfect. Smile glossy and sharp. The kind of smile you put on when you're winning. The kind that says I planned this. She turned to me and said sweetly, "You shouldn't have tried to outshine me." Then everything went black. And I was in a hotel lobby, standing in front of a monitor playing a looped interview. Nadia was on screen, smiling for the camera. "She was obsessed," Nadia said. "Always reading my work. Always trying to be me." The reporters gasped. Someone whispered, "Sad, really." Then came the laughter. It was quiet at first, then louder. It filled the room until I couldn't breathe. I turned to run and slammed into someone. Noah. Except it wasn't really him. His eyes weren't right. Too dark and empty. His hands gripped my shoulders and he leaned in, whispered something I couldn't make out, and then- I woke up, heart racing, skin damp and breath caught in my throat. It was still dark. I sat up slowly, trying to piece together what had just happened. The blanket was tangled around my legs. My hands were trembling. Just a dream. Just a dream. But my body didn't believe it yet. I reached for the water bottle on my nightstand, took a long drink, and let my pulse settle. I knew that dream. Not the exact details, but the flavor of it. The shame, the helplessness. The feeling of being exposed under a hundred judgmental eyes. The worst part was the dream version of Nadia wasn't even that different from the real one. *** The morning light didn't make things better so much as it made them manageable. I dragged myself into the kitchen, hair a mess, hoodie three sizes too big, and turned on the kettle. The floor was cold beneath my bare feet. Outside, the trees swayed gently like they hadn't been trying to give me an heart attack the night before. I made tea and sat at the tiny kitchen table with my journal again. Last night's dream? I wrote. A full-blown shame spiral in three acts. I scribbled a rough breakdown: Red carpet (gross) Nadia's voice (grosser) Noah turning into a shadow-man (???) Conclusion: My subconscious hates me. I tapped the pen against my lip and stared at the page. It didn't take a therapist to figure out what it meant. I was still angry, still humiliated and still haunted by everything I couldn't prove. And still too curious about a man I barely knew. I flipped to the next page and started free-writing. . She didn't run because she was afraid. She ran because no one had believed her. And sometimes, when people don't believe you, it doesn't matter if you're right, you still lose. You lose everything. But in the woods, no one was watching. No one was asking questions. Just one man with silver eyes and a name like a rainstorm. I stopped and put the pen down. That last line was dramatic as hell, but... accurate. Noah had been in my dream for a reason. He was the only person in this whole town I'd felt something real with, even if it had only been five minutes, a flat tire, and maybe three sentences. But I couldn't decide if that made him comforting or dangerous. There was something about the way he moved, the way he looked at me like he was doing math behind those eyes. Not in a creepy way but in a calculating way. Like he was checking the angles before stepping too close. He hadn't stepped close, but I'd wanted him to, which was a whole other level of confusing, given that I had literally just rebuilt my self-esteem enough to not cry at YouTube ads. I stared out the kitchen window, watching the sunlight catch on the leaves. If this was a horror movie, this was the part where the main girl ignored the signs, opened the cellar door, and got eaten. I wasn't that girl. I wasn't stupid, but I was curious. And in Willow Creek, curiosity didn't just kill the cat, it invited the ghost inside.

3Isabella. I knew I should've bought thicker curtains. The ones in my bedroom were thin, beige, and flimsy, the kind you hang up when you don't expect to have neighbors or prying eyes. Which I didn't. But I also didn't expect how loud the trees would be when the wind picked up. They scratched the window like they wanted in. I turned over in bed and stared at the ceiling. My phone glowed from the nightstand beside me. 2:14 AM. The cottage creaked like it was complaining about its age. Or maybe it was just settling. That's what people said, right? Old houses settle. Unfortunately, so do bad thoughts. I closed my eyes and tried to focus on the sound of my breathing, which was harder than it should've been considering I'd read every listicle on "calming nighttime rituals" known to man. I'd already done a warm shower, peppermint tea, five minutes of guided meditation (which was really just a woman whispering about moonlight and inner peace), and still. wide awake. That stupid knock from earlier, not even a real knock, just a wind-slammed branch, had jolted me straight into heart-thudding alertness. And now, everything sounded like footsteps. I rolled over again, hugged the pillow tighter, and pulled the blanket up over my ears like I was six and afraid of monsters. Which, apparently, I still was. There's something about lying in an unfamiliar house at night that makes your brain invent entire horror movies. My thoughts had cycled through home invasion, axe murderer, and vengeful ghost of a former tenant in the span of ten minutes. And the worst part was, I couldn't decide which was more likely. I was half a second away from grabbing the flashlight when I heard a soft thump outside the window again. Not the scratch of a branch this time. A pressure, like someone was leaning against the wall just below the glass. I froze. Every inch of my skin lit up with alert. Noah. No. Don't be ridiculous. He wouldn't just show up outside my bedroom window in the middle of the night. That's a vampire thing. Or a peeping tom thing. Either way, not Noah. Probably. I reached for my phone again and turned on the flashlight, then got up and tiptoed to the window. There was nothing in the yard. I pressed my palm to the cold glass. The sound must've come from something stupid like a raccoon or a deer. Or maybe a squirrel. I told myself to go back to bed. I was being dramatic. Sleep-deprived and dramatic. But my nerves weren't listening. I curled back into bed and stared at the ceiling again. And then, I fell asleep eventually. *** There were lights. Bright and blinding lights. I was standing on a red carpet, wearing a dress I didn't remember putting on. Around me, people in suits waved microphones and shouted questions I couldn't understand. Cameras clicked. A woman leaned in with a mic and said, "Did you steal the manuscript, Isabella?" My heart pounded. I opened my mouth to answer and Nadia appeared. Hair perfect. Smile glossy and sharp. The kind of smile you put on when you're winning. The kind that says I planned this. She turned to me and said sweetly, "You shouldn't have tried to outshine me." Then everything went black. And I was in a hotel lobby, standing in front of a monitor playing a looped interview. Nadia was on screen, smiling for the camera. "She was obsessed," Nadia said. "Always reading my work. Always trying to be me." The reporters gasped. Someone whispered, "Sad, really." Then came the laughter. It was quiet at first, then louder. It filled the room until I couldn't breathe. I turned to run and slammed into someone. Noah. Except it wasn't really him. His eyes weren't right. Too dark and empty. His hands gripped my shoulders and he leaned in, whispered something I couldn't make out, and then- I woke up, heart racing, skin damp and breath caught in my throat. It was still dark. I sat up slowly, trying to piece together what had just happened. The blanket was tangled around my legs. My hands were trembling. Just a dream. Just a dream. But my body didn't believe it yet. I reached for the water bottle on my nightstand, took a long drink, and let my pulse settle. I knew that dream. Not the exact details, but the flavor of it. The shame, the helplessness. The feeling of being exposed under a hundred judgmental eyes. The worst part was the dream version of Nadia wasn't even that different from the real one. *** The morning light didn't make things better so much as it made them manageable. I dragged myself into the kitchen, hair a mess, hoodie three sizes too big, and turned on the kettle. The floor was cold beneath my bare feet. Outside, the trees swayed gently like they hadn't been trying to give me an heart attack the night before. I made tea and sat at the tiny kitchen table with my journal again. Last night's dream? I wrote. A full-blown shame spiral in three acts. I scribbled a rough breakdown: Red carpet (gross) Nadia's voice (grosser) Noah turning into a shadow-man (???) Conclusion: My subconscious hates me. I tapped the pen against my lip and stared at the page. It didn't take a therapist to figure out what it meant. I was still angry, still humiliated and still haunted by everything I couldn't prove. And still too curious about a man I barely knew. I flipped to the next page and started free-writing. . She didn't run because she was afraid. She ran because no one had believed her. And sometimes, when people don't believe you, it doesn't matter if you're right, you still lose. You lose everything. But in the woods, no one was watching. No one was asking questions. Just one man with silver eyes and a name like a rainstorm. I stopped and put the pen down. That last line was dramatic as hell, but... accurate. Noah had been in my dream for a reason. He was the only person in this whole town I'd felt something real with, even if it had only been five minutes, a flat tire, and maybe three sentences. But I couldn't decide if that made him comforting or dangerous. There was something about the way he moved, the way he looked at me like he was doing math behind those eyes. Not in a creepy way but in a calculating way. Like he was checking the angles before stepping too close. He hadn't stepped close, but I'd wanted him to, which was a whole other level of confusing, given that I had literally just rebuilt my self-esteem enough to not cry at YouTube ads. I stared out the kitchen window, watching the sunlight catch on the leaves. If this was a horror movie, this was the part where the main girl ignored the signs, opened the cellar door, and got eaten. I wasn't that girl. I wasn't stupid, but I was curious. And in Willow Creek, curiosity didn't just kill the cat, it invited the ghost inside.