I was never afraid of the darkness. I found solace among the dead. They are quieter, simpler. They do not lie. They do not leave.

  The graveyard groans beneath the weight of the rain, the earth softening with every drop. Thunder rumbles somewhere beyond the chapel walls. Inside, the scent of wet stone and embalming herbs clings to the air—familiar, almost comforting. Most people flinch at the idea of living among graves. For me, it's home.

  I'm not a coffee person. Never have been. But when Bella makes it, I drink it like it’s the last warmth I’ll ever know. I wrap my fingers around the dragon-carved mug she brought me—a ridiculous, charming thing with chipped wings and a crooked snout. She said it reminded her of me. Fierce. Majestic. A protector.

  If only she knew the truth.

  I’m not a dragon. I’m a wolf.

  And wolves don’t protect—they hunt.

  "I'm leaving, Mr. Brooks," she says without looking up from her phone. It's always the same—curt, casual, detached. A ritual now. One I hate. She doesn’t wait for my response. She knows I won't give it. I never do.

  The ache is sharp and sudden. I hate when she leaves. I hate how easily she walks out, how carelessly she tears through the quiet I’ve built like armor.

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  Tonight, the rain sounds like a warning.

  "Stay till it stops," I mutter, eyes fixed on the shadows outside.

  She chuckles, soft and unsuspecting. "Good night, Mr. Brooks. I'm taking your umbrella—I’ll return it tomorrow."

  And just like that, she’s gone. The echo of the closing door slices through the silence.

  I turn to the window. I always do.

  There she is—Isabella Woods, in her oversized coat, books pressed tightly to her chest like they could shield her from this world. Her umbrella tilts awkwardly as she balances her flashlight and phone in one hand. The light bobs and flickers, casting pale glows across the headstones. She doesn’t belong in a place like this, among these ghosts. But she walks through them like she’s one of them.

  Like she’s already halfway gone.

  My chest tightens. I want to go to her. I want to walk beside her, hold the umbrella over her head, take the books from her arms. But that would mean getting too close. And I don’t trust myself that close.

  Then I see him—Mr. Watson—stepping out from the chapel shadows. He avoids rain like it’s poison. But tonight, he’s pacing to catch up with her, matching her stride with a stilted kind of care.

  He offers no umbrella, only presence. It’s enough. Enough for me to stay seated. Enough to know she won’t be alone.

  And yet, a darker truth rises inside me—slow, inevitable.

  She may be safe from the rain.

  She may be safe from the ghosts in the cemetery.

  But who will save her from me?