Chapter 1 — Invisible Threads
Clara
Clara Bennett had always considered silence her loyal companion, but tonight it pressed down on her like a heavy weight, suffocating in its stillness. The hum of her outdated laptop filled her cramped apartment, its screen glowing faintly with a half-finished café menu design she hadn’t touched in hours. Outside, the muffled sounds of distant sirens and the occasional rumble of traffic filtered through the fogged-up window, adding to her sense of disconnect. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard before falling still. The design felt lifeless, just like everything else she’d created lately.
She leaned back in her chair, the fabric creaking in protest, and rubbed her temples. Her gaze flicked to the stack of unpaid bills on the counter, the unanswered emails blinking on her phone, and the gnawing sense of failure that had taken up permanent residence in her chest. Thirty-two years old, barely scraping by on freelance graphic design work, and drowning in a sea of self-doubt.
Her sketchbook lay on the table, its worn leather cover catching the glow of the laptop screen. She reached for it instinctively, brushing her fingers over the familiar texture, but stopped short of opening it. The sketchbook was a gift from her mother—a link to the part of herself she no longer knew how to access. She couldn’t face its blank pages tonight.
The sharp trill of her phone shattered the quiet, making her jump. She snatched it up, expecting another reminder of a missed deadline, but froze when she saw the name: Juliana Marks.
Her heart stumbled. Clara hadn’t spoken to Juliana in nearly two decades, not since the day she’d left their small hometown without looking back. Memories of that place—and the people she’d left behind—were locked away in a box she refused to open. But now, the name on her screen threatened to pry it open.
The phone rang again, insistent. Clara’s thumb hovered over the decline button as her mind raced. What could Juliana possibly want after all these years? Her chest tightened, and a cold prickle spread across her skin. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good.
Finally, with a shaky breath, she pressed accept.
“Hello?” Her voice came out quieter than she intended, as if the silence of her apartment might swallow it whole.
There was a pause on the other end, long enough for Clara to wonder if the call had dropped. She was about to check when Juliana’s voice, low and sharp, cut through. “Clara. It’s Juliana.”
Clara gripped the edge of her desk, her knuckles white. “Yeah, I saw. Uh, hi. It’s been a while.”
“Eighteen years,” Juliana said bluntly, her words weighted with precision. “I wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t important.”
Clara’s pulse quickened. Juliana had always been direct, her words like arrows, and tonight was no different. “What’s going on?”
“It’s Vivian,” Juliana said, her tone clipped but trembling at the edges. “She’s missing.”
The words hit Clara like a physical blow, her breath catching in her throat. “Missing?” she echoed, her voice barely audible. She tightened her grip on the phone, her other hand trembling slightly. The name alone was enough to stir an ache in her chest, a flood of memories breaking through the walls she’d built around them.
“She’s been gone for weeks,” Juliana continued, her voice tightening like a rope pulled taut. “The police have been looking, but they’re useless. I need your help.”
Clara blinked, struggling to process the words. Vivian Marks. Her best friend. Her other half, once upon a time. The girl with the wild red hair and a laugh that could fill a room. The girl she’d left behind, along with her entire small-town life.
“I don’t understand,” Clara said finally, her voice unsteady. “Why would you need my help? I haven’t seen Vivian in—”
“Because she left something behind,” Juliana interrupted, her tone sharp but faltering. “Something that might mean something to you. A journal.”
“A journal?” Clara repeated, her brow furrowing. “Juliana, I don’t—”
“You were closer to her than anyone,” Juliana snapped, her words clipped but laced with something raw. “I thought you’d want to help.”
The accusation landed like a punch to the gut, shattering the fragile wall Clara had built around her guilt. She hadn’t forgotten. She could never forget. The falling-out with Vivian, the words they’d hurled at each other like knives, and the scar it had left on Clara’s heart.
“Juliana,” Clara started, her voice shaking, “I don’t know if—”
“Don’t make me beg,” Juliana said, her voice cracking. For a moment, her sharpness gave way to something unguarded. “I wouldn’t call you if I had another option. Please, Clara. She’s my sister. I need to find her.”
The silence that followed was suffocating. Clara stared at the cracked plaster of her ceiling, her mind racing. She didn’t want to go back. She didn’t want to face the ghosts she’d left behind. But the thought of Vivian—vulnerable, missing—was like a fist closing around her ribcage.
“I’ll come,” Clara said finally, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. “I’ll help.”
Juliana exhaled, the sound heavy with relief and something else—resentment, maybe. “Thank you. I’ll text you the address. Just get here as soon as you can.”
The line went dead before Clara could respond. She lowered the phone and stared at the blank screen, her reflection staring back at her with wide, haunted eyes.
She set the phone down, her hand trembling slightly, and reached for her sketchbook. She opened it to a blank page, her pencil hovering over the surface. But no lines came. Instead, she closed it again, pressing her hand against the worn leather cover as if it could anchor her.
---
The next morning, the alarm blared before dawn. Clara silenced it with a groan, her body heavy with the weight of her decision. She packed hastily, shoving clothes into a battered duffel bag and tucking her sketchbook into a side pocket. She paused, her fingers brushing the leather cover. It felt like she was packing a piece of herself—one she wasn’t sure she’d be able to face.
The drive out of the city was long and monotonous, the highway stretching endlessly before her. As the urban sprawl gave way to rolling hills and dense woods, the landscape grew wilder, untamed. Clara gripped the wheel tightly, her mind replaying Juliana’s words. Vivian. Missing. The journal. Each thought was a weight, pressing heavier on her chest with every mile.
When the familiar contours of her hometown came into view, her breath hitched. The narrow streets, the peeling paint on the old shopfronts, the towering pines that framed the horizon—it was like stepping into a time machine. Her pulse quickened as memories surfaced: summers spent by the river, whispered secrets under the stars, and the fight that had shattered it all.
The Marks family farmhouse loomed ahead, its weathered facade standing in stark contrast to the wild overgrowth that surrounded it. Clara parked in the gravel driveway and sat for a moment, staring at the house. It looked exactly as she remembered—two stories of faded white wood, a sagging porch, and windows that seemed to watch her with quiet disapproval.
She stepped out of the car, the crunch of gravel beneath her boots loud in the stillness. The air smelled of damp earth and pine, tinged with the faintest hint of decay. As she approached the porch, her chest tightened. She wasn’t ready for this. She wasn’t ready for Juliana’s sharp tongue, the memories that would claw their way to the surface, or the ghost of Vivian that seemed to linger in every shadow.
The front door creaked open, and Juliana stepped onto the porch. She was taller than Clara remembered, her frame lean and angular, with sharp blue eyes that seemed to cut through the haze of memory. Her expression was guarded, her lips pressed into a thin line.
“You’re here,” Juliana said, her voice flat.
“I’m here,” Clara replied, her voice barely above a whisper.
Juliana studied her for a moment, then stepped aside. “Come in.”
Clara climbed the steps, her legs feeling like lead. As she crossed the threshold, the scent of aged wood and something faintly sweet—lavender, maybe—washed over her. The house was dimly lit, its walls lined with faded family photographs and shelves filled with dusty books. It felt like stepping into a time capsule, every corner steeped in history.
Juliana led her to the living room, where a worn couch and mismatched armchairs surrounded a coffee table piled with papers and what looked like an old journal. Clara’s stomach twisted at the sight of it.
“I’ll explain everything,” Juliana said, her voice sharp but tinged with weariness. “But first, I need you to promise me something.”
Clara met her gaze, her own eyes filled with trepidation. “What?”
“Promise me you won’t run again,” Juliana said, her voice cracking slightly. “Not this time.”
The weight of the words pressed down on Clara, but she nodded. “I promise.”
It wasn’t much, but it was a start.
