Chapter One
Bella
I said her name until it hurt.
Said it in my head, over and over, like a prayer or a curse.
Anna.
Anna.
Anna.
When you lose someone like that—someone who was you, in every way that mattered—the pain comes first. Sharp and endless. You ache so badly you'd do anything to make it stop. You'd give anything to rewind the clock. Before the silence. Before the hollow space their absence leaves behind.
But the pain fades. Eventually. It always does.
And that's when it gets worse.
Because after the pain, there's nothing. Just… emptiness. And that emptiness is colder than grief ever was. You'd beg for the pain to come back, just so you could feel something real—just so you could pretend they were still here. If you'd known it was your last tether to them, you'd have wrapped yourself in it like a blanket. Let it rot you from the inside out if it meant you didn't have to accept they were truly gone.
So that's what I did. I stayed.
In the dark. In the pain.
Because letting go… that was the real death.
It had been six months since Anna died.
Six months in a room that no longer felt like mine.
Six months of avoiding mirrors so I wouldn't have to see her eyes staring back at me.
Being identical twins used to feel like a blessing—like a connection that couldn't be severed. But now, it felt like a punishment. My mother could barely look at me without her face tightening, and I couldn't blame her. I wasn't the one who deserved to live. Anna made life shine. I just… watched her. A shadow on the sidelines.
I used to think her reflection would comfort me. Now all I want is to shatter it. Crawl through the glass or drag her back out.
I remember thinking, after she died, that someone would come and pack her things. That someone would know what to do with her clothes, her books, the sheets that still held her shape. I waited for them. But no one came.
Because no one else could accept she was gone, either.
Anna knew she was going to die. She told me long before it happened, like it was some strange kindness—to give me time to prepare. As if you can ever prepare for losing half your soul.
She made me promise, when the time came, I'd go back to Forks.
She said he would be there. That I would need him. That he could help.
She never said who. Just that he would matter.
And I trusted her. Even when I didn't want to.
Anna always knew things. Things she shouldn't have. Visions, premonitions, whatever you want to call them—it was just… Anna. But it wore on her. Like she didn't belong in this world. She said she could feel it—that everything about her disrupted the natural order.
There was a part of her no one could reach.
And the part I did reach… it's gone now.
When we were six, she cried all day at school, wouldn't tell me why. That afternoon, our grandmother died. We came home to find her cold on the couch. I panicked. Screamed into the phone to call for help. But Anna just knelt by her side, calm, stroking her hair, whispering that we'd be okay. That she loved her.
She was there, completely there in that moment, like she already knew it was coming.
The morning I left L.A., I sat in the room we used to share, surrounded by boxes. The ceiling looked the same, smelled like her. I laid there with my eyes open, pretending she was just on the other side of the room, hand dangling off the mattress, always reaching for me even in her sleep.
Phil knocked on the door.
"Let's do this, Bell's."
I wiped my face, grabbed my jacket, and unlocked the door.
"You sleep at all?" he asked, giving me a once-over.
"I'm fine," I lied, passing him the first box just so he'd stop looking at me like I might shatter.
By the time we tied everything down in the truck, I could barely breathe. I hugged my mother—too long, too forced. We smiled like we were supposed to. Like we were normal. Like this wasn't a quiet kind of goodbye.
She stood at the door as I climbed into the truck.
"Call when you get there," she said, like it mattered.
I didn't answer.
I drove for hours. Crying on and off. Sometimes silent, sometimes loud. I imagined Anna beside me, singing off-key, laughing like she used to. I wanted to turn the car around and crawl back into our bed. Wrap myself in her scent and vanish.
But I kept driving.
Mom had already decided to sell the house. Said she couldn't live in it without Anna. I understood. She needed to move forward. But me? I wanted to go back. To the start. Back to Forks, where Anna said I belonged.
The motel was a blur—pale yellow walls, buzzing light, no sleep. I told Phil I needed my truck, but really, I couldn't risk flying. There were rules Anna and I lived by. Rules meant to keep us safe. Keep people from noticing.
The blackouts were getting worse. The doctors called them seizures, but it never felt right. For me, it was pain—violent, drowning pain. For Anna, it was something else. She saw things. Said they came in flashes, like puzzle pieces.
As kids, we were passed around from specialist to specialist, diagnosis to diagnosis. Nothing ever stuck. Eventually we stopped telling the truth. Just said what they wanted to hear. Talked about symptoms that could be explained. Epilepsy. Anxiety. Anything but what was really going on.
She tried to teach me to cope. Told me to focus, to breathe, to count. But I could never do it the way she could. She was always stronger than me.
When I finally reached Forks, I thought I'd feel something. But all I felt was dread. I unloaded boxes, searching through them in a frenzy, desperate to find my meds. Stupid not to pack them separately. Finally, I found them. Popped pills like candy, slammed the lid on the box, and raced into town for the rest.
The pharmacist barely looked at me until he read the prescription. Then he softened. Told me he'd rush it. I sat in the waiting chair, hands shaking, counting the seconds.
I'd been using Anna's scripts since she died. Told myself I was just borrowing them. That if she needed them, I'd give them back.
When I left the store, the pain hit hard and fast. Pressure in my head, a scream behind my eyes. I gripped the wheel and tried not to cry. When I glanced in the mirror, I saw a silver Volvo parked behind me, door open. Someone was getting out. I was blocking the exit. I didn't wait. I drove.
I made it home and barely got the door open before collapsing. Screeching, flashing lights, color and noise bleeding through my skull. I dragged myself to the bathroom, turned the cold shower on, and laid there on the tiles like I was on fire.
The next thing I remember was silence.
Then—him.
A voice. Soft. Gentle. Telling me I was safe.
Fingers in my hair. A presence I couldn't explain.
When I woke, I was alone.
For weeks, it went on like that. Blackouts. Lost time. Objects moved. Things in the house arranged strangely. I avoided unpacking. I couldn't bear to see the photos. The books. Her.
I hadn't spoken to another human in three weeks. I only went out when I had to. That day, I needed milk and eggs.
It was cold. My cardigan wasn't enough. I dropped the bag, spilled everything. Everyone stared. I didn't even care anymore. My keys jabbed me from my pocket and I cursed out loud. I bent to clean up the mess and saw someone walking toward me. My panic flared. I bolted.
I drove home, slammed the door, and collapsed against it. The tears came fast and hard. I couldn't keep pretending.
I missed her. Every second. Every breath.
Then came a knock.
Quiet. Hesitant.
I didn't move. Whoever it was waited, then walked away. I peeked out the window and saw the silver Volvo again, pulling down the street.
On the porch were two paper bags. Everything I'd dropped at the store. Replaced.
I took them inside, put on the kettle, and tried not to fall apart.
The pain came back before I could finish eating. I counted. I crawled. I begged. I made it to the bathroom and barely opened the cabinet before everything crashed down.
I took the pills—too many, maybe. I didn't care. I just needed the pain to stop.
It didn't.
It took me down, like it always did. Except this time, something felt different. Something shifted.
I thought about Anna. About what she'd told me. About him. That he'd come. That he'd fix it.
I didn't believe her.
Not really.
But when I opened my eyes, soaked and gasping on the bathroom floor, there they were—
Golden eyes staring into mine.
Just like she promised.