Chapter Text
The first thing I noticed when I arrived in Forks was the rain.
It wasn't a gentle drizzle or a romantic mist; it was heavy, unapologetic rain that seemed determined to drench every inch of my coat and seep through to my bones. The clouds above were thick and low, casting the landscape in a muted gray. But even through the gloom, the towering evergreens and moss-draped branches of the forest whispered something strange and soothing.
I parked my car in front of the old house, turned off the engine, and just sat there for a moment, listening to the rain tap against the windshield. I tried to breathe slowly, to ground myself in the now, but my hands trembled slightly as I gripped the steering wheel. It had been a long drive from the city. A longer few months.
The house had once belonged to my grandparents on my mother's side. I never met them. My mom inherited it when they passed, but she never came back here. She always said Forks was "too quiet, too wet, too filled with ghosts." Funny, considering she left it to me like an unfinished sentence. Now, it was the only thing I had left of her.
I pushed the car door open and stepped into the rain.
The house sat right where Forks faded into La Push, surrounded by tall trees and with a garden that had once been carefully tended but now stretched wild and unruly toward the woods. Ivy wrapped itself around the porch railings, and moss crept up the edges of the stone foundation. Despite the neglect, there was something gentle and nostalgic about it. Like it had been waiting.
I dragged my suitcase across the gravel path and up the front steps. The key stuck a little in the old lock, but the door finally creaked open, revealing a hallway shrouded in dust and draped in white sheets.
The house smelled like time.
Faintly of cedar, damp stone, old books, and a kind of stillness that made you hold your breath. My footsteps echoed on the wooden floorboards as I moved through the rooms, tugging off the covers and opening the curtains one by one.
Light filtered in, muted and soft. The living room was full of antique furniture: a velvet couch, a bookshelf stuffed with faded spines, an old radio on a side table. It felt like stepping into someone else's memories.
Upstairs, the bedroom that must have once belonged to my mother was small but cozy. The wallpaper was peeling, and the window glass was smudged with time, but there was a charm to it. I didn't feel afraid, just... overwhelmed.
I spent the rest of the day sweeping, dusting, and unpacking. The heater worked — surprisingly — and the electricity flickered on with a hesitant hum. There was no internet yet, and no phone service, but that felt almost like a blessing.
I slept that night on a pile of blankets in the upstairs bedroom, the bed too dusty to use yet. As I drifted off, the rain softened to a gentle tap against the window, and somewhere in the distance, I thought I heard a wolf howl.
It didn't scare me. Not really. It just reminded me that I wasn't alone out here. Not entirely.
⸻
The next few days passed in a quiet rhythm. I woke up early, opened windows to air out the musty smell, and started tackling the more serious cleaning. There was a list growing in my notebook: new paint, fix the broken porch step, replace the cracked bathroom mirror, unclog the kitchen sink. It was a lot.
But I liked the work. It gave me purpose.
Most of the furniture was too old or too moldy to keep, so I pushed everything into the garage for now. The only thing I couldn't bring myself to move was a massive wooden easel I found tucked away in the sunroom.
It was beautiful — carved oak, sturdy, and worn smooth by years of use. A few glass jars of dried paint still sat beside it, and my heart ached a little as I touched them.
I hadn't painted since before the accident.
Back when I still lived in the city. Back when my mom was alive and my biggest problem was finishing a canvas in time for a community gallery event. After she died, the colors in my head went dim. I packed up my supplies in a box and told myself I'd get back to it eventually.
Maybe eventually had come.
I unpacked the box marked "Aurora - art stuff" and found my brushes, my worn apron, and the sketchbook I hadn't opened in over a year. I set up the easel in front of the kitchen window where the light was best and painted the view: the overgrown garden, tangled and wild, where weeds had overtaken flower beds and dandelions stretched their bright heads toward the trees.
It wasn't a masterpiece. But it was a beginning.
⸻
One afternoon, I ventured into town. Forks was small, quieter than I remembered from childhood road trips, but not unfriendly. I picked up groceries, dropped off a form at the post office, and stopped by the hardware store to grab a few things for the house.
I was wrestling a plunger and a bag of screws when someone stepped beside me and offered a hand.
"You look like you're in a fight with that thing."
I turned and saw a woman about my age, with warm brown eyes and a soft smile. A long scar curved across her cheek, but it didn't make her look harsh — just stronger, like she'd lived through something and come out kind anyway.
"Guilty," I said, managing a smile. "I just moved into the old white house near the edge of La Push. It's basically falling apart."
"Oh! The house by the forest? I remember it. It's got a lot of character. I'm Emily."
"Aurora."
We shook hands, and I felt something ease in my chest. She had that kind of energy — steady, warm, like standing near a fire on a cold day.
"You should come by sometime," she said as we walked toward the register. "My fiancé and I live out on the rez. We do dinners on Sundays with our extended family. Lots of food. Lots of noise. But always good company."
"That sounds... really nice," I admitted. "It's been a while since I've had that."
She didn't ask why. Just smiled.
"You're welcome anytime."
⸻
That night, I cooked myself a simple dinner and ate it on the back porch wrapped in an old quilt. The rain had stopped for once, and the air smelled like wet earth and pine.
The garden was quiet, except for the distant chirp of crickets and the occasional rustle of leaves. I let my gaze wander toward the forest. It started right where my property ended, a wall of deep green and shadow that felt impossibly vast. I'd always loved trees — they reminded me of stories and secrets.
Somewhere in the distance, I heard it again: a wolf's howl.
This time, it sounded closer.
It wasn't threatening. There was something almost... lonely about it. Or maybe I was just projecting.
I stayed out until the stars blinked through the clouds and the quilt no longer kept out the chill. When I finally went inside, I paused in the hallway and glanced out the front window one last time.
The trees stood still, tall and silent, like guardians.
And I, for the first time in months, felt something like peace.