Chapter 1

The alarm clock on the table beside the bed shrieked like a wounded bird. Yvonne’s eyes remained sealed shut as she flailed her arm at the offending device—thwap—she missed. Thud—she knocked over her water glass instead. On the third attempt, her fingers finally found the snooze button, and silence returned to the room.

Why does night shrink like a cheap sweater every single time I need it to stretch? she grumbled to herself, burrowing deeper under her comforter until only the tip of her nose peeked out. At 23, she should’ve outgrown her hatred of mornings by now—but then again, being a part-time librarian meant she spent most of her evenings helping late-night readers and organizing book clubs, so sleeping in was practically part of her job description. And it’s Saturday, she reminded herself gleefully. No shelving books, no dealing with people who think “Dewey Decimal” is a type of coffee order.

She’d barely had time to finish her dream about winning a pie-eating contest against a talking cat when reality came knocking.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“Yvonne! Get up this instant! Are you planning to hibernate until lunch?” Her mother’s voice carried through the door with the force of a drill sergeant.

Yvonne cracked one eye open, squinting at the sunlight streaming through her curtains like it had personally insulted her. “I’m awake, Mother… I’m just… calibrating my consciousness,” she mumbled, her words muffled by her pillow.

“Calibrate all you want—come downstairs for breakfast!” The footsteps in the hallway faded, and Yvonne could’ve sworn she heard her mother mutter something.

With a theatrical groan that would’ve earned her an Oscar nomination, Yvonne dragged herself upright. Her hair stuck up in seven different directions, looking like a bird had built a nest there overnight. She stretched her arms overhead until her joints popped like popcorn, then shuffled toward the bathroom.

After a perfunctory teeth-brushing session and a splash of cold water to her face, she leaned closer to the mirror. Her gaze drifted to her neck, then traced the air around her shoulders, searching for the telltale strands that haunted her every morning.

Nothing. Not a single thread in sight.

She exhaled a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. Well, looks like today isn’t my turn to check out of the mortal hotel. Good thing—I still haven’t visited many places.

Yvonne had been able to see the black threads since she was old enough to understand mirrors. She called it her “curse with benefits”—though so far, the scales tipped heavily toward the curse. Over the years, she’d seen more deaths than most people twice her age: the kindly baker who’d ignored her warning about crossing the street, the college student at the library who’d laughed off her advice to skip that late-night drive, the little girl at the park whose mother had brushed off her concern about the loose swing set. But she’d saved people too—like Mrs. Quinn from next door, who’d taken her word about avoiding the elevator the day it got stuck between floors, or the teenager she’d pulled back from stepping into traffic just as a car sped by.

Now she’s learned to balance caution with acceptance. She’d warn people if she could find a way to do it without sounding crazy, but she’d stopped letting every set of threads weigh on her shoulders like a boulder. Some fates, she’d realized, were as stubborn as overdue library patrons.

She ran a brush through her hair until it lay mostly flat, pulled on a faded hoodie and jeans, and trudged downstairs. The smell of pancakes, bacon, and coffee hit her like a warm hug, and her stomach did a little happy dance that her brain refused to acknowledge.

In the dining room, her father sat at the round mahogany table, his nose buried in the newspaper. “Morning, Dad,” Yvonne said, plopping into her usual chair.

“Mm-hmm,” he replied without looking up, tapping his finger on an article about local politics.

“Morning, Sleepyhead.”

Yvonne whipped around to find her older brother Zachary leaning against the doorway, looking annoyingly put-together in a crisp dress shirt and slacks. She blinked twice. Is that really him? Or did a well-dressed clone replace my workaholic brother while I was asleep?

“Since when do you not leave for work before the sun rises?” she asked, eyeing him suspiciously. “Did you finally burn out? Do we need to stage an intervention? I’ve already got a sign ready that says ‘WORK LESS, LIVE MORE’—I made it in art class last year.”

Zachary’s lips twitched into a rare smile—so rare, Yvonne almost pulled out her phone to take a picture. “Very creative, but no intervention needed. Mother ran into Sidney at the market this morning and invited her over for breakfast. I thought I’d stick around to help.”

Sidney. The name landed in Yvonne’s stomach like a lead weight. She’d never liked her brother’s girlfriend—not because Sidney wasn’t gorgeous (she had cheekbones that could cut glass and a smile that made strangers stop and stare), but because Yvonne’s gut had been sending her warning signals louder than a foghorn. Plus, she thought petulantly, Aurora was way nicer. She used to bring me homemade cookies every time she visited.

“Right. Sidney,” Yvonne said, forcing a smile that probably looked more like a grimace. “Great. I’ll just… save her a seat next to the salt shaker she probably doesn’t need because she’s too perfect to eat anything with flavor.”

Before Zachary could respond, the sound of footsteps thundering down the stairs announced the arrival of her second brother, Zane. He skidded into the room in his worn-out sneakers, his hair even messier than Yvonne’s, clutching a half-eaten granola bar.

“Morning, morning, morning!” he chirped, dropping into his chair like a sack of potatoes. “Did I hear someone say Sidney’s here? Is she bringing those fancy macarons she likes to show off?”

“Zane, please chew with your mouth closed,” their father said, finally lowering his newspaper. “And where have you been? I thought you said you were going for a run at six.”

“I did go for a run!” Zane protested, swallowing his food. “I just… got distracted by a street vendor selling fresh lumpia. It was research for my food blog!”

As if on cue, their mother’s voice floated from the kitchen, warm and bright: “Everyone take your seats! Breakfast is ready—and Sidney, dear, could you hand me those plates?”

Yvonne felt a prickle at the back of her neck. Not now, she thought, straightening up in her chair. Please don’t let it be now.

She glanced toward the kitchen doorway just as two women walked in—her mother, carrying a stack of pancakes that glistened like gold, and Sidney, whose dark hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail that made Yvonne’s own efforts look pathetic.

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