Chapter 7 The Pull
Aurora:
The morning light is too bright, too soft, and too cruel.
I wake to the sound of laughter and something sticky against my cheek. A small hand pats my face, followed by another, lighter one.
“Mommy, you forgot pancakes,” Alara says solemnly, her curls tangled into a crown of morning chaos.
“I did not forget,” I murmur, reaching out to tickle her. “I was testing if you would remember.”
Lior climbs onto the bed, clutching a toy truck. “You said we'd make pancakes,” he reminds me, all serious eyes and sleepy voice.
They are both the best and worst alarm clocks in the world.
I sit up, pulling them into my lap, inhaling the scent of syrup from yesterday and strawberry shampoo. Four years ago, I woke up alone in a hotel suite with an ache that felt like it might break me. Now, every morning begins with this chaos, warmth, two pairs of arms around me.
And still, something in my chest feels restless, like a heartbeat that forgot which rhythm to keep.
While they eat, I scroll through my phone, pretending to focus on news updates. My inbox has three new leads from work, one from Warren marked urgent. My thumb hesitates before opening it.
Subject: Michelsen inquiry follow up.
Body: Check the Kingston contracts. They go deeper than charity fronts. Use caution.
My stomach twists. The name should have lost its power years ago. But it hasn’t. Every time I see it, the air feels thinner.
Lior drops a blueberry, and it rolls under the table. I reach to grab it, but something shifts in the air, a small pulse beneath my collarbone. The mark glows faintly, almost invisible in the morning light.
It has been silent for years.
My breath catches. I press my hand over it until it fades again.
“Mommy?” Alara asks, her mouth sticky with syrup.
“Nothing, baby. Just thinking.”
She nods like she understands, already distracted by a cartoon.
After breakfast, I drop them at preschool. Lior hugs tight, serious and quiet. Alara blows a kiss from the doorway, dramatic as ever. Watching them run toward the teacher always hurts a little. It is the kind of ache that feels like love and fear holding hands.
When I get to the newsroom, the coffee tastes burnt and the world tilts back into routine. Warren waves from his office.
"Anderson, conference room in ten. Bring your notes on Michelsen.”
I nod, even though my notes are only half ready. My brain is elsewhere, looping back to last night’s press conference, to the moment Levi looked at me like no time had passed at all.
I told myself it meant nothing, that I had imagined the flicker of gold in his eyes.
But I remember too clearly the way the air changed, the way my pulse skipped, the way my mark flared.
The meeting drags on. I talk, I take notes, I ask sharp questions. My voice sounds steady. My hands do not.
By the time I leave, my phone buzzes with an unknown number.
Unknown: Stop investigating Kingston. It is not safe.
No signature. No context. Just that.
I delete it, then regret doing so. Anonymous threats are nothing new in journalism, but this one feels different. Too personal. Too aware.
I tell myself it cannot be him. He would not warn me. He would not care.
The thought burns hotter than I expect.
That night, the apartment is quiet again. The twins are asleep, the city hums outside the window, and I sit at my desk with coffee gone cold. I open the files on Michelsen, scanning donation records. Numbers blur.
My focus breaks when the mark beneath my collarbone starts to tingle again, stronger this time.
I press against it, breathing hard. It feels alive, pulling at something inside me. A warmth floods through my chest, spreading to my throat, my skin, my pulse. I close my eyes, and for a second, I smell cedar and rain.
No. I refuse to let memory become real.
The door buzzer goes off, sharp and sudden. My heart stutters.
When I check the intercom, no one answers. The street below is empty except for a parked black car with tinted windows. It has been there before, two nights ago, idling in the dark.
The buzz comes again, then silence.
I call the babysitter, who lives downstairs. “Did you see anyone at the entrance?”
“No, Ms. Anderson. Just a car that left a few minutes ago. Everything alright?”
“Fine,” I lie. “Thank you.”
When I hang up, I peek into the twins’ room. Lior sleeps curled around his stuffed wolf, his face soft and serious even in dreams. Alara sprawls across her blanket, her curls a halo of wild light.
A small voice cuts through the quiet. “Mommy?”
Lior’s eyes blink open, hazy with sleep. “The man with the smoke smell came back.”
My blood runs cold. “What man, baby?”
He yawns, already fading back into sleep. “The one who looks sad.”
I stay by their door long after they drift off again, listening to the city outside my window. It hums with sleepless life. Streetlights flicker against the rain, and somewhere below, a siren wails before fading into the hum of traffic.
I tell myself it is just another night, but my reflection looks like a stranger, hair loose, eyes tired, a woman who keeps pretending she is fine while the world she built quietly tilts.
The mark beneath my collarbone stirs again, faint and warm. I press my palm against it, as if I can smother the pulse out of existence. It only glows brighter for a heartbeat before softening into gold. I swallow hard.
“You are not real,” I whisper. “You do not get to come back.”
The words sound braver than I feel.
For a second, the apartment feels too still, the air too aware. My heart beats once, twice, then I hear it. A voice, low and ragged, threading through the quiet like breath against my ear.
Aurora.
I freeze. My pulse stutters. The sound vanishes almost instantly, leaving only the faint echo of my name hanging in the dark. Maybe it was the wind. Maybe exhaustion. Maybe madness.
But as the first light bleeds across the glass, I know I will keep hearing it, that low voice, half memory, half warning, every time I try to forget.
And part of me already knows I never will.