Eternity was a long time.

She supposed years should have felt like minutes, knowing that she had so many to waste, but instead they felt like little forevers. Little infinities within three-hundred-and-sixty-four days that trapped her in this place, left her to rustle and tumble about like a crumbling autumn leaf blowing down the pavement. Three-hundred-and-sixty-four days when the only sun she felt was filtered through the century old windowpanes, brighting her (long dead) skin with a dusty glow. She still wasn't sure how it worked, exactly. Was her skin actually there? Were her feet really planted firmly on the ground? Was she actually made of something? Her body was out somewhere, buried beneath a crushing mound of soil and marked with a slab of polished rock. But somehow, she could still feel, still hurt, still touch things and touch people.

It was all too weird.

She hated it here. Her mother hadn't been able to handle the pain of losing the only child she'd actually been able to deliver, split with her dad, and moved herself out to Austin, Texas to forget whatever it had been like to be a Harmon. Her dad had turned his tragedy into revenue, writing the tragic pyscho-analytic autobiography of the aftermath of his only daughter's tragic suicide that of course helped countless grieving parents and made him thousands in the process. And she was stuck here. In this hellhole. This gilded cage that made her want to do anything but sing. Where she had floated for a decade.

Ten years was a long time. And she had forever to go.

His sister was laughing again, Adelaide's almost unsettling chuckles piercing the silence of the car.

He glared out the open window, brown-black eyes gazing with sullen animosity at a purple clad jogger running contentedly down the neighborhood sidewalk, dwarfed by the mansions towering over the street. Old trees climbed to the clouds, branches spilling over and shading the sidewalk, delicate leaves catching the sunlight and dancing in the wind. It almost didn't look like Los Angeles.

Larry said something, something stupid, something pointless, something Larry probably could have gone his whole life without saying but said it anyway. Constance seemed just as unimpressed as her son did, dismissing her boyfriend's comment coolly as she pulled the car over to the curb.

Adelaide looked up at their new house with something that seemed a mix of fright and amusement, glancing back at her brother with her usual devious grin. He was apathetic, the corners of his lips twisted down in an expression of passivity and aloofness. He was probably the most unhappy about the move, if only because it meant that his mother and Larry were buying a home together and that that meant that for whatever reason they must have been planning on staying together and that made him want to fume and rage and yell and hit but his hands remained obediently at his sides, then thrusted into his pockets, fingers clenched so tight he could feel the stinging little half-moon dents begin to appear on his palms.

And within a moment they were inside the house, the cavernous building filled with dark wood and chandeliers and windows painted the colors of a Monet piece, something that the bumbling realtor called "Tiffany." Larry babbled on, peering through his unappealing lenses at the light fixtures with a sense of satisfaction and pride, chattering about the crown molding and the hardwood floors and the goddamn railings on the goddamn staircase. And then the moving truck was there because the house was already theirs, and Constance shooed her son out the door with a flick of a red fingernail, and he obliged, happy to get away from their masquerade of a family.

He opened the door, shoulders slumping up and down as he stepped into the sunlight, and he nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw a slim figure sitting on the steps, light brown hair hanging to her shoulder blades, shielded by a round black hat that he found both interesting and unusual. The hair swung as the head it was connected to turned, big brown doe-eyes smirking back at him.

"So you're the new guy." The girl turned her attention back to the street, where burly movers were unloading Larry's hideous couch from the back of the van. Her voice was smooth and low, relaxed, as if she took her time with her words, not rushing them like so many people in the valley did. "I've been curious."

He was too confused to try to ask this girl why she was sitting on his porch, a cigarette hanging from her lips, relaxed enough to give off the impression that she owned the place, and instead stood awkwardly beside her, blonde curls flopping over his brows.

"Violet."

It took him a moment to realize that the word she had spoken was her name, and she was looking at him expectantly, blowing smoke out of the corner of her mouth. His hands shrugged their way into his pockets.

"Tate."