“The line between the living and the dead isn’t a wall—it’s a fog. And some of us were born already walking through it.”
I looked toward the window. My mom stood there, phone pressed to her ear, voice low and tired.
Who could she be calling this early—right after meeting April?
I turned away from the house. April and Oya followed close, our steps crunching in the wet snow. The morning air stung April’s cheeks, and because of the link between us, I felt it too.
Then a woman’s voice drifted through the cold.
“Come to us, Lonnie. Follow my voice.”
It wasn’t April or Oya. The accent was strange—an old-world English that brushed against German, like someone trying to hide it beneath polite vowels. Warm, inviting… and wrong. Panic crawled up the edges of my thoughts.
“Master?” Oya’s tone sharpened. “What do you hear?”
Her concern only made it worse. I could feel April’s confusion twisting against my fear, her pulse quickening. I didn’t want to scare her more than she already was.
“Yes,” I said quickly. “I’m fine.”
I wasn’t.
The voice came again—closer now. “Over here, Lonnie…”
I spun around. Nothing but white breath and a quiet street.
“Lonnie, you’re scaring me,” April whispered. “I can feel your fear. What’s happening?”
“You don’t hear that?”
Both of them shook their heads. Oya’s eyes flashed silver; two small thunderclouds formed in her palms. She could read my panic even when I hid it from April.
The numbness started in my arms.
Then my ankles.
That same fading sensation I’d felt before—when I’d appeared in April’s room, when I’d blacked out in 1776. My body didn’t hurt, it just… hollowed out. A low ringing began in my ears, buzzing until it filled my head like static. I tasted metal. Iron.
I knew what was happening. The whiteout.
“You’re fading…” April gasped.
I looked at my hands; they were turning translucent. The snow around us brightened until it devoured everything—the houses, the streetlights, even the sky.
“Stay with me!” she shouted, but her voice sounded miles away.
I reached for her. She was already fading too. Four white silhouettes appeared behind her—tall, glowing figures like sketches made of fog. One looped its arms under hers; another grabbed her ankles. Two more hovered behind, flickering.
“April!” I yelled, running toward her.
“Lonnie!”
“Get her!” another voice cried out—familiar, but melting into the static.
Then everything went white.
No snow.
No sky.
Just endless fog swallowing sound itself.
The buzzing grew louder, like an army of bees inside my skull. My chest burned with the same helplessness I’d felt with Brenda—the same choking realization that I couldn’t save anyone. Not her. Not my mom. Not April.
“That’s right,” said the older voice, smooth and cold. “Follow my voice, Lonnie.”
I ran. No footsteps, no ground, just motion through a formless world. The whiteness began to shift, shadows bleeding into shape. The buzzing turned into crackling, like fire. The metallic taste thickened, then vanished—replaced by something bitter, herbal.
Warmth touched my ankles first.
Then my hands.
The whiteness folded inward, blooming into color. Browns. Creams. Candlelight. The smell of Earl Grey tea drifted through the air.
I opened my eyes.
I wasn’t outside anymore.
I lay on my back in a small bed, thick rustic blankets tucked under my chin. The air smelled of smoke and wood polish. The faint pop of a fireplace filled the silence.
The room looked old—colonial, maybe. A wooden rocking chair creaked near the fire, a small desk sat beside it. Sitting there, with her back to me, was a girl about my age. Shoulder-length blonde hair. A simple red-pink dress cut in the English style—long sleeves, clean lines, low collar. Her freckles caught the firelight.
She hummed softly to herself, completely calm, as if boys just materialized here every day.
I swallowed, throat dry. My mouth still tasted of metal and medicine. I spotted a small glass vial and a cloth pad on the table beside her.
Great. I’d been drugged.
The fire cracked again, throwing light across her face as she turned slightly.
“Well,” she said in a lilting British accent, “I do hope you wake up soon. We have so many questions to ask.”
I stayed still, breathing shallow. She leaned closer, pressing a damp cloth against my arm—some kind of tonic or antiseptic. Then she picked up a small needle.
Yeah, no.
I bolted upright.
She screamed, stumbling backward out of her chair as I jumped off the bed. My feet hit the floorboards—real, solid wood.
“Oh! You’re up!” another voice said cheerfully.
The same older voice that had led me here.
It sounded like it came from the right, so I ran left. Down a narrow staircase, into a larger sitting room. I scanned for a door. None.
Two men stepped into the hallway ahead of me—light-skinned, both in dirty white shirts and blue work pants. I dove behind a couch. They passed by without seeing me.
I slipped down another corridor, breath ragged. Voices murmured from behind a half-closed door. I opened it just enough to slip inside and pressed my back against the wall.
Someone was already there.
An older woman sat in a grand rocking chair carved with ornate German patterns. Silver hair pinned neatly, heavy earrings swaying as she moved. Her dress was simple and white, but the fabric was fine.
Her smile was small. Patient.
“Welcome, Lonnie,” she said. “I’m Elizabeth Reidlinger. Welcome to my home.”
Two others sat across from her in matching chairs: a white boy and a Black girl.
The boy wore bifocals and colonial clothes that looked straight out of a history book—Benjamin Franklin-style, waistcoat and all. Slim, a little taller than me, with sharp features and sandy-brown hair.
The girl beside him was maybe my age—light brown skin, curls wild and free. She wore the same outfit he did, trousers and all, and met my gaze without flinching.
I stepped back toward the door, fingers ready to summon Oya if I needed her.
Then Elizabeth spoke again.
“Don’t be afraid. Brenda will be relieved to know you’re finally awake.”