Chapter 1: The Lily on The Mantle

Isla never planned to see Greenridge again. She’d sworn it off the night she packed her life into two battered suitcases and boarded a bus bound for anywhere that wasn’t here. Ten years ago, she’d watched the town disappear through a cracked window, its streetlights flickering like old ghosts in the mist. Back then, she’d promised herself she’d never be the girl who turned back.

Yet here she was. Standing at her grandmother’s gate, same rusted hinges, same squeal of protest when she pushed it open. The evening air pressed warm against her skin, sticky with the promise of rain. A soft wind rustled the ivy that clung to the old house’s porch columns, tugging at the hem of her coat as if to say welcome home — or maybe don’t bother.

Isla’s boots crunched over the gravel path. She paused when she reached the porch steps, her eyes drifting over the faded welcome mat and the chipped paint on the railing. She’d spent summers here as a child, trailing after Grandma Ruth with a basket full of lilies they’d clipped from the garden. Ruth’s laughter had filled this yard. Now it felt like the garden held its breath, waiting for someone to remember what it used to be.

She climbed the steps slowly, her suitcase thudding behind her. The key — still hidden in the old blue flowerpot — slid easily into the lock. Inside, the house exhaled a draft of stale air, lavender sachets, and the faintest trace of the rose soap Ruth always kept in the upstairs bathroom.

She flicked on the hallway light. Nothing happened. She muttered a curse under her breath and found a dusty lamp in the living room, coaxing its warm glow to life. The room looked the same: mismatched chairs, a crocheted blanket draped over the arm of the couch, stacks of old magazines on the coffee table. Time had paused here the moment Ruth had slipped quietly away, leaving Isla as the reluctant heir to a house she’d never wanted to inherit.

She set her suitcase by the couch and moved deeper inside. Dust motes danced in the lamplight. The quiet was thick, the silence alive with the memories she’d once stuffed into boxes and hidden at the back of her mind. On the mantle above the fireplace, the old family photos still leaned in crooked rows — Ruth and Grandpa Thomas in their wedding clothes, her mother as a young girl on a swing, Isla at ten, beaming, a lily tucked behind her ear.

Isla’s breath caught when she saw it — not the photo, but what sat beneath it. A single lily, bright white, in a mason jar half-full of clear water. The flower was impossibly fresh, its petals smooth and unblemished. It looked as if someone had placed it there only minutes ago.

She reached for it, fingertips grazing the cool glass. Who would leave a lily for her? Her chest tightened around a memory she hadn’t meant to find tonight: Jonas’ hands buried in garden soil, his voice soft against her ear — Lilies are stubborn, Isla. Like you.

She turned away from the mantle sharply, pushing that thought out into the dark. She moved to the kitchen, flicking on another lamp. The old kettle sat on the stove, the same kettle that had screamed every morning of every summer she’d spent here. She filled it halfway, watching the water swirl. She didn’t want tea, but she needed the ritual — something familiar to keep her hands busy and her mind quiet.

As the kettle rumbled to life, Isla wandered to the back door. She pulled the faded curtain aside and peered out. The garden looked worse than she expected — a wild, tangled mess of weeds and brambles choking out what was left of the lilies. The trellis leaned under the weight of ivy, its wooden frame splintered in places. But even through the ruin, she could see them — stubborn blooms pushing through the neglect, white and defiant.

She made her tea, carrying it back to the living room where she curled into the corner of the couch. The old blanket smelled faintly of mothballs and lavender. She pulled it around her shoulders, staring at the lily on the mantle. The steam from her mug fogged her glasses, so she set it aside untouched.

A floorboard creaked somewhere in the hallway. She told herself it was the house settling, the wood shrinking in the night’s dampness. But she found herself glancing at the mantle again, wondering if the lily had always been there, or if someone — Jonas? — had placed it for her to find.

She thought about him, though she didn’t want to. About the way he’d said her name the last time they’d spoken, his voice raw from a fight that wasn’t really about him at all. About how he’d watched her go without chasing after her, because he’d known even then that Isla Cross didn’t stay put for anyone.

A soft tap startled her from her thoughts — the kettle’s hiss had stopped. She rose to pour another cup she wouldn’t drink, the clock on the wall ticking too loudly above her head.

She caught her reflection in the dark window over the sink: tired eyes, damp hair curling at her temples, the faintest shadow of the girl she used to be. For a moment she thought she saw movement behind her — a shape crossing the hallway, silent as breath. She spun, mug slipping from her fingers and cracking on the floor.

Nothing there. Just shadows. Just the empty living room.

She laughed at herself, the sound thin and unconvincing. She knelt to pick up the broken pieces, the tea spreading in a brown halo across the old linoleum. When she stood again, she forced herself to ignore the way her heartbeat thundered in her ears.

She turned off the lamp in the kitchen, then the one in the living room. Darkness swallowed the corners of the house. Only the hallway light above the mantle stayed on — flickering once, twice — before going out with a faint pop.

Isla stared at the lily in the sudden dark. It seemed to glow in the absence of light. She stepped closer, drawn in despite herself.

A floorboard creaked again. She froze. Outside, the wind rattled the porch swing against the rail. The gate — the gate she’d shut behind her — squealed open.

She stood at the window, peering out through the gap in the curtain. Moonlight painted the front yard silver. On the bottom step of the porch sat another lily, this one tied with a thin red ribbon that fluttered in the breeze.

She pressed her palm to the cold glass, heart thudding. A shape moved beyond the fence — a figure too shadowed to name, standing just where the porch light didn’t reach.

When Isla’s eyes met the darkness, the figure turned — and the gate swung open again.