Chapter Text
The festival glittered beneath strings of warm lights, booths blooming in color and noise like a summer fair in a dream. The scent of buttered popcorn and roasted almonds danced through the air, mingling with bursts of laughter and the occasional strum of a guitar from a busking teen. A cotton candy sky melted above them.
Afternoon light draped lazily over food stalls, windchimes, and mason jars full of iced tea. Kids ran barefoot through the grass, chasing bubbles. A soft folk band played near the lakeside dock, their voices caught in the breeze like old love letters.
The Mikaelsen Ranch booth sat tucked near the northern gate — a petting pen framed in rustic fencing, fake snow machines puffing at irregular intervals. Reindeer-shaped signs pointed to "photo ops" and holiday cookies with cow faces.
Dylan wiped sweat from her brow with a bandana as she guided a little girl’s hand to gently feed a fawn.
“Flat palm,” she reminded, soft but tired.
The child giggled. The fawn sniffed her fingers. Nearby, Corey leaned against the rail with his easy grin, chatting up a woman in a festival volunteer shirt, arms crossed, watching unaware of them.
Dylan’s shift had gone long. She was still in boots and her work tank, her hair braided and tangled from wind.
She was halfway through packing up water buckets when she saw her —
Swann, by the shade of the big tree near the vendors, adjusting her camera rig with a half-empty lemonade in one hand. Her eyes caught Dylan’s across the crowd. Her breath visibly stilled.
Dylan froze, something soft and panicked catching in her ribs. For a second she felt like the ground shifted — not in fear. In gravity.
Their eyes met.
It was unintentional. It was unmistakable.
And it held.
They hadn’t touched since that night.
That night — of starlight and skin, whispered poems and hands tracing stories across bruised shoulders. The lake breathing beside them. The sound of Dylan’s heartbeat slowing, finally, in Swann’s arms.
Now, in front of the world, neither dared move too close.
Swann’s breath caught. She tried to play it cool — eyes dipping back to her camera — but Dylan’s gaze lingered like gravity.
Then, without a word, Dylan reached out.
Not to kiss her.
Not to hold her.
She reached for a stray wheat stalk tangled in Swann’s hair. Gently plucked it from behind her ear. Fingers brushing just enough to send a shiver racing down Swann’s spine.
She held it up between them like a secret.
“You had a little… meadow moment,” Dylan said, voice low and warm.
Swann laughed — breathless, half-swoon, all butterflies. “I was in the field earlier. Forgot.”
“You wear it well.”
Dylan took a step back. Hands back in her pockets. But her eyes? Still burning soft.
Swann opened her mouth to say something — she didn’t know what — then “Thanks."
The world bustled on behind them, but here in the golden hush, it felt like they were wrapped in their own invisible thread — one they didn’t quite have the courage to tug on.
Dylan stepped back, her cheeks flushed.
“I should—go clean up. Before someone mistakes me for livestock.”
Swann laughed, too hard maybe, brushing her own hair behind her ear like the air still carried the memory of Dylan’s touch.
“See you later?”
Dylan nodded. “Yeah. Definitely.”
And as she turned to go, Swann watched her, smiling to herself like she was already writing poems she hadn’t even lived yet.
Swann tossed a ring toward the bottle stand — missed again, barely.
“I’m usually better at this,” she said, nose wrinkled, eyes on the prize wall.
“Liar,” Dylan said, smiling crooked and soft. “But endearing.”
Swann rolled her last ring between her fingers like a coin to wish upon. She threw it — and it missed again, clinking like a small laugh against glass.
“No prize,” she sighed with mock grief, turning to walk away.
But Dylan reached into her jacket and pulled out a pink plushie — awkward, bright, and already a little dirt-streaked from being hugged too hard. She pressed it wordlessly into Swann’s arms.
“You already won,” she said, voice barely above the rustle of the wind. “That’s the top-tier one anyway.”
Swann bit her smile into her lip, eyes flicking down before they lifted to Dylan again. “You’re dangerously good at flirting.”
“I’m restraining myself,” Dylan murmured, like a secret too heavy to say aloud.
They drifted together through the festival crowd, not quite touching but close — hands brushing every so often like they belonged in the same orbit.
Everything around them blurred into motion and sound: children’s laughter, a carousel tune, the pop of soda caps, the hum of speakers being tested from the stage.
Swann pointed to a booth with hand-painted signs and a spinning wheel.
“Your turn,” she said, tugging Dylan’s sleeve. “Win me something ridiculous.”
The fair stretched golden in every direction — lanterns flickering like bottled stars, the air laced with sugar and old songs.
Swann and Dylan wandered slowly, not in a rush, as if time bent around the two of them.
They passed a dart booth — balloons pinned up like candy moons — and Dylan nudged Swann gently with her elbow.
“Five throws,” she said. “Winner gets bragging rights and eternal admiration.”
Swann arched an eyebrow. “You already admire me.”
Dylan grinned. “Not eternally . That has to be earned.”
Swann handed over a crumpled bill and accepted the darts. Her aim wasn’t perfect — she popped two, missed three.
Dylan, to no one’s surprise, hit four in a row with casual confidence, the last one punctuating the center balloon in a soft pop .
The booth runner handed Dylan her prize — a plush velvet moon, stitched with tiny gold stars.
Dylan turned, holding it out with mock-seriousness. “For your bedside. So you always have a moon to dream under.”
Swann took it slowly, fingers brushing Dylan’s. “You’re ruining me with metaphors.”
“Good,” Dylan said. “You’re making me ruinable.”
A small fountain gurgled at the center, circled by floating paper boats — each marked with different symbols. Stars. Moons. Arrows. Feathers. Whoever landed a coin in one could claim its meaning, whispered to them by the attendant — a woman in silver bangles and a velvet shawl who looked like she belonged in a fairy tale.
Swann paused, enchanted. Dylan raised an eyebrow. “That’s a con,” she muttered. “You toss your money and get a Pinterest quote.”
“Still,” Swann said, placing a hand over Dylan’s. “Try.”
Dylan sighed. She fished out a coin from her pocket — one she always kept by accident, not quite quarter, not quite token. “Fine,” she said, spinning it once. “But if it lands in the water and drowns, that’s my answer.”
She tossed it.
It sailed through the air, silver blinking in the light — then landed with the softest plop inside a boat marked with a small, imperfect moth.
The attendant clapped gently. “Ah. A rare one,” she murmured. “The moth — drawn to what glows, what burns. Fragile, yes, but persistent. Always finds the light, even if it costs her.”
Dylan blinked. “What kind of Hallmark haunting…”
Swann stepped forward, smiling softly at the moth symbol. “Sounds familiar.”
The woman reached into a drawer and handed Dylan a tiny object — the prize for her win.
It was a handmade necklace: a clear pendant with a pressed moth-wing fragment inside, shimmering faintly under the lantern glow. Not a prize of grandeur — but delicate. Dreamy. One-of-a-kind.
Dylan held it up. Her thumb brushed the glass.
“You should keep it,” Swann whispered.
But Dylan shook her head and, wordlessly, reached to drape it over Swann’s neck. Her fingertips were warm against Swann’s collarbone. Gentle. Careful. Her gaze never left Swann’s eyes.
“It’s yours,” she said. “You were always the light.”
Swann’s breath caught. She looked down at the tiny moth glinting against her chest like a memory crystallized in flight. “You’re not flirting anymore,” she said, barely above a murmur.
“I’m failing miserably at pretending not to,” Dylan replied.
They walked on. Slowly. Softly. Past laughter, fire-breathers, and booths that smelled like sugar and rain. The sun dipped low — pink melting into indigo — and the sky blushed with early stars.
Dylan pointed out a booth selling miniature watercolor portraits. Swann pointed out a dog wearing sunglasses. They tested the echoes of their laughter like secret passwords. Dylan tried to win Swann a rose-shaped candle. Swann won Dylan a single silver ring pop and ceremoniously slipped it onto her pinky.
They meandered through booths afterward — trying tiny cups of saffron ice cream, burning their tongues on sweet potato skewers, wiping powdered sugar off each other’s mouths without touching lips. Not yet. Not yet.
At a charm stand tucked between the poetry booth and the fire-eater’s circle, Swann paused — drawn not by the glittering necklaces or the rows of enamel pins, but by a single Phoenix brooch nestled near the back.
It was small, but unmistakable — a sweep of wings caught mid-rise, its feathers shimmering in iridescent hues of copper, crimson, and gold. A tiny wisp of enamel flame curled beneath its talons.
The backing card read, in delicate cursive ink:
“No phoenix burns for nothing.”
Swann held it in her palm a moment longer than necessary. The weight of it was nothing — but the meaning felt like more. Like thanks. Like belief. Like love, spoken in symbols because words were too much.
They wandered further, feet crunching gravel near the edge of the lake. Fairy lights shimmered across the surface like second stars. They settled on the grassy slope, the sounds of the festival a warm blur behind them.
For a while, neither spoke. Their shoulders brushed. Dylan fidgeted with her rings. Swann pressed the plush moon to her chest like something she’d always had.
The world turning slow as a carousel. At one point, Dylan reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind Swann’s ear.
“Do you think it’s different now?” Dylan asked finally. “The town. The festival. Us.”
Swann thought about it. “Some things changed. The people didn’t. The magic’s still here — just waiting for us to see it.”
Dylan turned to her. “You make it easier.”
Swann looked over. “To see magic?”
“To believe it exists.”
They didn’t kiss. But their closeness tasted like a promise — one sealed with soft glances and breath caught between words.
Swann pressed it into Dylan’s hand, the Phoenix brooch.
“For you,” Swann said softly, unable to meet her eyes. “Because… I think you’ve risen more times than anyone sees. Even when it’s quiet. Especially when it’s quiet.”
Dylan blinked — caught off guard in a way that made her face unguarded, vulnerable. She opened her hand and stared at the pin.
She didn’t speak right away. Just looked at it, then at Swann — and then tucked the phoenix into the pocket of her leather jacket like it belonged there. Like it had always been there.
She only said, “Thank you,” but her voice cracked at the edge.
And Swann, watching the soft lift of Dylan’s smile, knew it meant more than enough.
Just as they rose to rejoin the crowd, Dylan gently took Swann’s hand. No words. Just her thumb brushing against Swann’s pulse point, like she was memorizing the beat of this moment.
“I heard the band’s playing during the finale tonight,” Dylan offered.
“We are,” Swann said. “Last slot. Saving the best chaos for the finale.”
Before she could tease more, a familiar voice cut in — one she hadn’t heard in years.
“Swann Holloway?”
She turned — and found herself standing before the immaculately postured silhouette of Clarissa Mikaelsen, arms folded with that effortless grace, her smile polished and precise.
Everett, standing beside her, mirrored the same careful warmth, hands folded behind his back like a statesman giving a speech even when silent.
They hadn’t changed.
Still elegant. Still proud. Still carrying more weight in their smiles than they let on.
Swann straightened instinctively. “Mrs. Mikaelsen. Mr. Mikaelsen. It’s… been a while.”
Clarissa offered a gracious nod. “Three years, nearly. You used to live in our guest room, practically.”
“She was always attached to Kat’s hip,” Everett added with an easy chuckle.
Swann laughed, though it was a little nervous. “Yeah. Kat made it hard to leave.”
“And now you’re back,” Clarissa said, voice soft but lined with expectation. “For good?”
Swann hesitated. “For the summer. For now.”
Everett Mikaelsen nodded, hands behind his back. “We’ve been hearing all kinds of things. Your name keeps coming up.”
Swann laughed softly, modest. “Mostly from Kat, I bet.”
“From Dylan, too,” Clarissa said with a soft tilt of her head — her gaze flicking toward her daughter with subtle inquiry. “She’s been… lighter, these days. Less brooding. Less… removed.”
Dylan’s shoulders tensed, though her face betrayed nothing.
“At first, we assumed it was Kat’s influence,” Everett said, amused. “But clearly, you’ve brought your own kind of charm.”
Swann smiled tightly, feeling Dylan coil inward beside her like a thread pulled too tight. She wanted to say something. Anything. Before the weight pressed harder.
“She’s barely home these days,” Clarissa went on. “Helping with the band. Tagging along with her sister. Always off somewhere. And Kathryn’s been oddly… cheerful.”
Everett chuckled. “We were starting to wonder if we’d been transported into an alternate reality.”
"I didn’t mean to… disrupt,” Swann said gently, trying to shield.
“Oh, don’t be silly,” Clarissa said. “We only wish you were ours, too.”
Dylan’s breath hitched. Swann glanced down — her fingers itching to reach for her — but held back.
“You’ve grown so much,” Clarissa added.
Swann’s chest ached. Dylan wasn’t saying anything — just standing there, fists clenched in the pockets of her jeans, her jaw sharp with silence.
So Swann spoke.
Softly. But clearly.
“She’s been wonderful to me,” she said, meeting Clarissa’s gaze. “Kind. Thoughtful. Honest. She's been showing me parts of Velvet Cove I didn’t get to appreciate before.”
Clarissa blinked, just slightly.
“She’s the reason it feels like coming home,” Swann continued, voice steady now. “There’s this warmth to her — it’s quiet, sure, but it’s real. And I know you see her every day, but sometimes the people closest to us forget just how remarkable someone is.”
Dylan’s breath caught faintly beside her.
“She’s brilliant with animals,” Swann added gently. “She’s good with her hands — like a born mechanic — and she’s practically running the bar on some nights. She’s strong, and funny, and patient… and whether she realizes it or not, she makes things better just by being there.”
The silence between them thickened — not awkward, but dense. Something unspoken settled in the space like dust stirred by sudden light.
Clarissa’s expression didn’t falter, but something unreadable flickered in her eyes. Everett’s posture shifted, ever so slightly — like a thread had pulled too tight and then gone slack.
“We only wish she saw herself that way,” Clarissa said after a moment. “It’s good to hear someone does.”
Dylan’s fingers brushed against Swann’s — brief, but electric. Like a warning. Like a thank-you.
Then came the shift.
“And your major?” Clarissa asked. “Kat mentioned something about film?”
“Media studies and journalism,” Swann replied. “Documentary, mostly. A bit of creative writing on the side.”
Everett nodded. “Very aligned with Kathryn, then. That literary streak.”
“And your mother?” Clarissa asked, her tone softening. “We were sorry to hear about your father.”
Swann’s throat tightened, but she nodded. “She’s okay. It’s… been hard. But we’re healing.”
Dylan was silent beside her. Swann could feel the tension rippling under her skin — quiet, hot. She reached again, brushing her pinky along Dylan’s.
This time, Dylan didn’t pull away.
“She’s barely home,” Clarissa repeated. “We just hope she isn’t avoiding us.”
“She’s not,” Swann said firmly. “She’s trying. Maybe in her own way, but she is.”
Clarissa smiled, but didn’t answer. Not really.
Swann could feel the pressure building in Dylan like a storm that had nowhere to go. And so, she stood just a little closer.
Their fingers finally threaded — unseen, unnoticed, and quietly defiant.
A familiar voice cut through the moment — too smooth, too familiar.
“Well, well. Looks like the guest list got a little more interesting.”
Corey.
Swann stiffened.
Dylan’s hand slipped from hers like it had been burned.
Corey approached with his usual ease — ranch boots scuffed just enough to seem hardworking, shirt sleeves rolled up, hair too perfect to be accidental. He gave Everett a charming nod, Clarissa a smile that bordered reverent.
“Evening,” he said warmly. “The booths are a little hectic, but things are running smooth now. Thanks for trusting me with the program again this year.”
Everett smiled politely. “You’ve been handling it well. We appreciate the help.”
Clarissa nodded. “You always show up when it counts.”
Corey’s eyes flicked briefly to Dylan — softening, just enough to mimic affection — then landed on Swann.
That smile deepened. Not cruel. Just… knowing.
“Now this is a gathering,” Corey said. “Look at this little town hall. Swann, you’re glowing.”
Swann stiffened. “Thanks.”
“I mean it,” he went on, cheerful. “Dylan’s practically been floating since you returned. Wild how one person can change the atmosphere.”
His gaze was sharp behind the smile.
But Corey only chuckled, still watching Swann. “I just find it interesting. One minute, you’re gone for three years. Then you’re back and suddenly Dylan’s a whole new person.”
Swann’s tone was light, but her eyes sharp. “It’s called healing. Some people grow up.”
“Ouch,” Corey said with mock hurt. “Must be nice — getting a fresh start. Not all of us need to run off to figure out who we are, though.”
Dylan shifted. Swann caught it — the tiny recoil — and stepped slightly in front of her.
Corey tilted his head. “Still… I gotta admire your timing. Showing up right as things were getting serious again. Real movie moment.”
“Some people make entrances,” Swann said softly. “Others just lurk in the background. Trying to control the script.”
Corey’s eyes glinted, but he said nothing.
Kat arrived seconds later, catching the edge of his words, arms crossed. “Is it me or is something rotting here?”
Clarissa sighed. “Kathryn—”
“Oh come on, Mom,” Kat grinned. “We were one passive-aggressive comment away from someone pulling out a Bible and disowning a daughter.”
Everett pinched the bridge of his nose. Clarissa looked horrified.
Dylan, somehow, smiled.
Corey rolled his eyes. “Kat, not everything’s about you.”
Kat scoffed. “Neither is it about you, ranch boy. Now go chase your deer or whatever you do when no one’s looking.”
Clarissa sighed, like the weight of disappointment was familiar by now. “Are you even wearing sunscreen?”
“Mom,” Kat said sweetly. “I’m literally running for mayor one day and leading a band tonight. Let me die like a rockstar, okay?”
Swann laughed — couldn’t help it. Even Dylan cracked a breath of relief.
She stepped forward, voice casual, biting. “Hey, Corey?”
He looked at her.
“You talk a lot of shit for someone who’s never made Dylan feel like a human being.”
Clarissa bristled. “Kat—”
But Kat’s voice didn’t waver. “You treat her like a fucking puppet. Like a loyal dog. Like a goddamn prize.”
Corey smiled coldly. “I care about her.”
“No, you own her. Or at least you think you do.” Kat took another step. “And let me say this, loud and clear: my sister’s not your project. She’s not your trophy.”
Then — the sentence that landed like thunder:
“She’s just your emotional support cum dumpster.”
A full second of stunned silence.
Clarissa gasped. “Kathryn Mikaelsen—!”
Kat raised her hands. “Hey, not my words. Just calling it what I see.”
Corey’s face flickered with something darker — but quickly smoothed.
Swann, meanwhile, kept her eyes on Dylan.
Dylan looked at the ground. Shoulders tight. Breath shallow.
Swann wanted to reach for her again — but this wasn’t the place.
Clarissa sighed, clearly flustered. “If you can’t be civil, Kat, you can go help your father at the booth.”
“I would, but I’m late for the band ritual,” Kat said, spinning on her heel. “I’m bringing chaos and justice.”
She winked, grabbed Swann’s wrist, and whispered, “Come on, emotional support queen.”
Swann glanced back.
Dylan’s eyes were on her, wide and silent.
But her parents were talking to Corey again, nodding along to his charming lies.
Dylan didn’t move, only watched as Swann followed Kat into the crowd — her back straight, her fist still clenched where Swann had touched her.
The sun was melting behind the booths and the fairy lights. Dusk painted Velvet Cove in gold and lilac, casting long shadows as the music from the main stage pulsed through the air.
Nora and Autumn walked along the edge of the festival grounds, past the popcorn carts and tarot readers, neither saying much. The tension between them had become so familiar it barely felt like tension anymore. Just distance with a name.
They were civil. For the band. Their friendship.
But the ease they used to have was gone — replaced with something quieter, colder. Like a song they no longer knew the words to.
Nora was the first to speak. “I’m leaving for a few days. After the show.”
Autumn didn’t stop walking, but her pace slowed. “Where?”
“L.A. My mom’s flying me out for my birthday.”
Autumn scoffed under her breath — not loud, but loud enough. “Of course she is.”
“I’m just going for a visit.”
“Right,” Autumn said, still not looking at her. “A visit.”
Nora sighed. “Don’t do that.”
Autumn stopped. “Do what?”
“Talk like you already know what I’m going to do before I even say it.”
“Because I do , Nora.”
Nora faced her. “I haven’t made any final decisions.”
“About what ?” Autumn’s voice rose, sharp like a crack in the ice. “About transferring colleges? Moving to L.A.? Leaving?”
Nora blinked. “You already knew?”
Autumn laughed — bitter and small. “You told me. Drunk. In the garage. Remember? Said you might change your major. Said maybe fashion school out there would be better. And then you never brought it up again. Like saying it out loud was a glitch.”
Nora’s silence gave her away.
“And you haven’t told Swann. Or Kat. You won’t even admit it to me .”
“I was trying to find the right time—”
“There’s never a right time to be left,” Autumn snapped.
That shut Nora up.
Autumn looked away, jaw tight. “Every time something’s too hard, you disappear. You flirt with the idea of being here, of being with me , and then— poof. You’re chasing a new dream.”
Nora’s voice was quieter now. “You know I’ve never been happy here.”
“That doesn’t mean you can just break away like it doesn’t cost anyone anything.”
“I stayed because of you ,” Nora said. “All these years — I stayed for you.”
Autumn’s eyes darted up, wild and wounded. “Then why does it feel like you’re always halfway out the door?”
Nora swallowed. “Because I am. Because I’ve had to be. Because this town — my family — it never fit me. I clung to you like a life raft. I still am. But I can’t pretend forever.”
“And what? Swann’s going to leave too, so that makes it easier?” Autumn’s voice shook. “So you’re already bracing for the end?”
Nora flinched. “You know it’s true. Summer’s just a season. We all knew this wouldn’t last.”
Autumn stepped back like she’d been slapped. “ You knew that. Don’t pin that on me.”
They stood there — in the amber shadows of the festival — the crowd distant, the music blurred like a memory.
Nora’s voice broke. “I love you, Autumn.”
Autumn looked away. “You’ve got a funny way of showing it.”
Silence stretched between them like a rope pulled too tight.
Autumn’s eyes widened. Her lips parted like she might laugh — or cry — but no sound came.
“I mean it,” Nora added, voice gentler now. “I love you. And I’ve been waiting for you to… want me back like I do you.”
Autumn’s voice was low. “Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”
“I do,” Nora said. “But I need more than just… almosts. I need more than crumbs.”
“I tried,” Autumn said, pulling her hand free just barely, just enough. “You think I didn’t? I’ve wanted you for years . But you always make everything a game. You disappear. You flirt and run. You never stay long enough to see what it could be.”
“I stayed for you more than I should have,” Nora snapped, not cruel, just cracked. “And the one time I say I might leave — to try something new — you make me feel like I betrayed you.”
Autumn flinched.
“I’m scared,” Nora admitted. “That I’ll leave, and you won’t miss me. Or worse — you’ll finally let someone else love you.”
Autumn looked down at their shoes, scuffed and dusty from festival gravel.
“I didn’t know how,” she whispered. “How to say yes to you. I still don’t.”
Nora looked away. “You’re being dramatic.”
“No,” Autumn snapped. “I’m being honest.”
They stood now in the shadow of the Ferris wheel, the lights above casting shifting patterns across their faces — blue, then gold, then red.
“I didn’t say I was moving. Not yet,” Nora said. “I said I was thinking about it. You’re the one who always says I treat life like a game. Maybe I do. But it’s because I don’t know where I belong.”
Autumn’s voice cracked as she said, “I thought maybe it was here. With me.”
Nora hesitated. Then took a slow step forward. “It is with you. But you’re the one who shuts me out. Every time I get close, you pull away. Every time I try to talk, you pretend you don’t care.”
“I do care!” Autumn’s voice rose, startling a couple passing nearby. “But you’re already halfway gone, Nora. You didn’t tell Kat. You didn’t tell Swann. You didn’t even tell me. You were gonna leave and play it off like a fucking field trip.”
Nora reached for her hand — gently, uncertain. “Because I didn’t want to make it real.”
They stood like that, caught in the churn of carousel music and the distant shriek of people playing shooting games, fingers barely grazing, like a connection they were both afraid to complete.
Nora hesitated. Then, “It’s not like I’m running away forever.”
“But you do run,” Autumn snapped. “That’s the problem.”
Nora flinched, then stepped closer. Her voice cracked a little. “I told you… it’s just a few days. I’m seeing my mom, maybe checking out a college. It doesn’t mean I’m leaving us .”
“But you won’t admit it either, will you?” Autumn’s eyes shimmered. “That you’ve thought about it. About starting over. Without us. Without me.”
Nora reached out, took Autumn’s wrist — not tightly, but enough to still her.
“I never wanted to leave you,” she said. “But you never asked me to stay.”
Autumn’s lip quivered. “I didn’t know how.”
Their breath caught together in the space between them, like two notes of a song never finished.
And then—
"Hey! You two lovebirds coming or what?”
It was Kat, at the edge of the crowd, hands on her hips, wearing a smirk and a glittering pair of glow-in-the-dark angel wings strapped to her back. Beside her stood Swann, quiet but watching, her eyes warm and careful. They were heading toward the fortune teller’s tent — where smoke still curled from the incense inside, and stories waited in the deck of an old woman’s hands.
Their energy was different — brighter, lighter — but as they approached, both Kat and Swann seemed to sense the tension still thick in the air.
“We were gonna hit the fortune teller,” Kat said, a little too casually. “Apparently she predicted Mrs. Seancy’s poodle would run away and it did. So. Obviously legit.”
Swann tilted her head, her eyes flicking between Nora’s flushed cheeks and Autumn’s stiff arms.
Autumn sighed, letting Nora’s hand drop.
“We’ll finish this later,” she said.
“Promise?” Nora asked.
Autumn looked back, her gaze soft despite everything. “Only if you stay long enough to let me.”
And with that, they walked toward the tent — toward cards and fate, toward the night still brimming with performance, chaos, and the tremble of unspoken things.
The tent sat like a whisper at the farthest edge of the Velvet Cove Summer Festival, half-hidden by swaying ivy and a weather-worn sign that read only: FATES WOVEN HERE.
The path leading to it was overgrown, forgotten by most. But inside, it held the hush of otherworldly things.
Candlelight spilled soft golden halos over crushed velvet cushions and smoke-swirled air. The scent of pine resin and clove wrapped around them like a lullaby half-remembered. Moths flickered at the canvas walls, drawn to something older than flame.
Crystals swung gently from the ceiling, catching the candlelight and scattering it like tiny galaxies on the canvas walls.
Autumn, Nora, Kat, and Swann sat cross-legged in a circle, the pulse of music and laughter outside fading into the hush. The fortune teller sat before them — cloaked in layers of black and indigo, her fingers heavy with moonstones, her hair a cascade of silver threaded with tiny bones. Her eyes were stormcloud grey — and when she looked at them, it felt like being seen backwards through time.
She simply looked at them — each of them — as if she were seeing not just their faces, but the blueprints of their hearts.
Autumn sat with her arms folded tight, hiding nerves with a smirk. Nora, next to her, adjusted her necklace twice before going still. Kat lounged with bored elegance, a lollipop between her teeth, but her eyes flicked warily to Swann.
And Swann — always quietly alert — knelt cross-legged, her recorder in her pocket, as if part of her already knew this was a moment she’d want to keep.
"You come not for answers," she said, voice like the space between thunder and rain, "but for mirrors. For reflections you haven't dared hold up yet."
“You four,” she murmured, shuffling the deck slowly. “All tethered by fate and fire.”
They said nothing. The deck shuffled itself in her hands.
Without asking who should begin, she drew the first card.
Autumn — The Tower
The card fell like a crack of lightning. On it: a tall spire shattered by fire, people falling from the edges, crowns tumbling midair.
"You've built a life on smoke and scaffolding," the teller said, eyes fixed on Autumn. "Beautiful, yes. But brittle. There is something coming. A reckoning. A fall that feels like ruin but is actually release."
Autumn's throat moved. She didn’t speak, but her gaze dropped to the floor.
Nora — The Lovers (Reversed)
The card shimmered as it turned. Two figures, once intertwined, now out of reach. A strand of light snapping between them.
"You run from what you love," the fortune teller murmured. "Not because it's untrue. But because it demands more of you than you're ready to give. And still, the tether remains."
Nora's mouth opened. Closed. She blinked. Autumn didn’t look at her, but the air between them felt taut, humming.
Kat — The Star
Hope poured from the image. A woman kneeling beside a quiet pool, surrounded by constellations. A crown of light above her.
"You shine for others without asking why and carry hope like a sword, like armor, like a secret," the teller said, voice gentler now. "But you are not made to burn out for the sake of anyone else’s warmth. Hope is not just something you give. It is something you deserve."
Kat’s throat bobbed. She exhaled through her nose, managing a soft laugh. “Sounds like someone’s been reading my diary,”
Swann — The Moon
Even before the card turned, Swann felt it. The image sent a chill down her arms: two animals howling at a silver moon, shadows pooling at their paws.
"You dream with both eyes open," the fortune teller said. "You walk between the seen and the hidden, and you’ve buried truths so deep you’ve forgotten where. But they’re stirring now. You feel them, don’t you?"
Swann could only nod. Her fingers tightened around the hem of her sleeve.
"Is it dangerous?" she whispered.
"It’s inevitable," said the woman.
Then, without hesitation, the fortune teller drew one final card — and placed it at the center of them all.
Judgement
Four figures rising from open coffins, arms outstretched toward a golden trumpet in the sky.
"This is what binds you," she said. "This is the path beyond your individual fears. A call. A choice. A transformation."
Her voice darkened, thick with wind and warning.
"You will be tested. Not as friends. Not even as a band. But as mirrors of each other’s undoing and becoming. What you choose will echo.”
Silence fell like a hush of snow.
Outside, the world had turned.
The stars blinked to life. The festival had begun to swell toward its crescendo.
The silence in the tent was not heavy. It was holy.
Candlelight flickered like fireflies caught in jars. The smoke from the incense curled upward in fragile spirals, trying to reach something above that couldn’t be named.
They all stared at the cards laid out before them — the Tower, the Lovers reversed, the Star, the Moon… and now, Judgement. A quiet reckoning of who they were and who they might become.
Kat leaned forward, one brow raised.
“So,” she said, voice light but threaded with something sharper, “are you saying this is true? That these cards know our secrets?”
The fortune teller tilted her head. Her eyes were neither old nor young — they were starlight.
“Fate never lies,” she said simply. “But it waits. It tests. It offers you glimpses — not guarantees.”
She placed her hands over the table, long fingers adorned with rings carved like animal bones and polished amber. Then, with a softness that felt like she was plucking something from their souls, she began to speak again.
“Your friendship is more than a story,” she said. “It’s a constellation — made of seasons, of light and dark, fire and ash. I have seen many bonds before. But yours—”
She tapped her fingers lightly on each card again, a silent incantation.
“Autumn,” she said, turning her gaze to the girl in the leather skirt and eyeliner like armor, “you are the moon . Restless, changing. You illuminate even when you're alone in the sky. But you cast shadows, too. Not everyone dares to touch you, but those who do never forget your glow.”
Autumn blinked, unsure if it was flattery or a curse. Perhaps both.
“Nora,” the fortune teller whispered next, eyes warm, “you are the sun . Brazen. Burning. You are joy and destruction and light in its purest form. But be careful — you chase too many mornings, you’ll forget how to rest.”
Nora looked away quickly. Her lip quivered, just once.
Then her eyes settled on Kat, who arched a brow, as if ready for mischief or mockery.
“Kathryn,” the teller said, smiling now, “you are the raven . The clever one. The watcher. The one who sings prophecy and dances in storms. You pretend you don’t care — but you care the most.”
Kat tilted her head. “So what, you’re a goddess in disguise?” she teased.
The fortune teller only laughed — low and lilting, like wind rustling through willow leaves.
“I am only what I need to be.”
And then — she turned to Swann.
“Ah,” she murmured, voice softening even further, as though approaching a wild animal or a living prayer. “You are the moth . The one drawn to flame. You seek beauty in the ruins. You carry silence like a secret, and love like a wound. But even you—especially you—will find your wings when the night is darkest.”
Swann swallowed. Her fingers tightened slightly over her own knees.
The fortune teller lifted her hands again, gesturing as though painting a sky only she could see.
“Four girls,” she said, “each of you a season reborn over and over again.”
None of them spoke.
None of them could .
The candle flames bowed as if the truth itself had passed between them like a wind.
Kat finally exhaled a laugh — shaky, disarmed. “Okay,” she murmured, voice raw with something tender, “you are definitely a goddess.”
The fortune teller only smiled, like she’d been called worse. “No, child,” she said. “I’m just the mirror. You’re the myth.”
And somewhere far beyond the velvet walls of the tent, a guitar chord rang out. The stage lights had begun to glow, casting long shadows across the field.
The time for fate had ended.
Now came the time for chaos.