The first thing I hear in Murrow Falls is my own voice.
Not now, not awake—then. Last night. The echo of it clings to my throat when I jerk upright in the narrow bed of the rented attic room, lungs scraping like I’ve swallowed smoke. The room is gray-blue with early foglight leaking through the thin curtains, dust floating in skewed beams. My tongue tastes of copper and cold air.
I touch my neck. Raw. Tender. Like something fought its way out.
“Shit,” I croak.
The old radiator ticks in sympathy. Somewhere below, the pipes exhale a long metallic sigh, the house settling on its old bones. The clock on the milk-crate nightstand reads 5:17 a.m. I’ve slept maybe three hours.
My chest stutters, a half-remembered melody fluttering against my ribs. It’s always like this—waking with someone else’s song lodged between my teeth and no memory of singing it. Just pain, the ghost of notes that feel familiar the way scars do.
Except this time, it’s worse. The sheets are twisted and damp with sweat. The window—the window I definitely locked—is cracked open an inch. The fog crowding the glass looks thick enough to touch.
My heart gives a slow, ugly thump.
For a moment I just sit there, listening. The town is quiet except for the distant rush of the falls, a low, constant roar, like blood in ears. I don’t hear footsteps. Breathing. Anything.
“Get it together, Harper,” I mutter.
The floor is cold when I swing my legs out of bed. The air has that wet chill that seeps through old wood and cheaper insulation, wrapping around my ankles as I cross to the window. My bare toes curl against a knot in the floorboard.
I pull the curtain back.
Fog peers in like a living thing, thick bands rolling past, dense enough that the streetlights below are just smeared halos. Murrow Falls is all cliffs and old brick and too many trees, and this morning it looks like the world ends five feet from my window.
I shove the frame up the rest of the way with more force than necessary and lean out, breath frosting in the cold.
That’s when I see them.
Prints. On the narrow strip of roof just below the window, dusted in fine grit and last night’s dew. Not boot tread, not sneakers. Toes. Arches. The faint shape of a heel.
Barefoot.
My stomach turns. The roof is slick, sloping down toward the alley three stories below. No one should be walking here at all, let alone barefoot. I follow the trail with my eyes—a half-dozen impressions, each one a little fainter, ending right beneath my window.
And starting…from nowhere. The fog hides the edge of the neighboring roof, but the prints don’t come from there. They just…begin. As if someone stepped out of nothing and walked straight toward my room.
The melody caged behind my ribs pulses once, hard, like it recognizes something.
I slam the window shut, hands shaking.
This is fine, I tell myself, because lying is a skill I practice a lot these days. New town, old legends. Creepy landlord, creepier fog. My brain, still glitching from the accident. None of it means the Nameless are real or that anything was actually standing out there while I sang some eldritch lullaby in my sleep.
I lock the window. Twice.
By nine, the fog hasn’t lifted, just thinned to a restless veil that clings to the streets. Murrow Falls in daylight is all brick storefronts and iron lampposts leaning into one another, the kind of place tourists would call “charming” and locals just call “old.” I tug my jacket tighter around me as I cross Main, camera bag thumping my hip.
Fresh start, I remind myself. New job at the used bookstore tomorrow. New town where no one knows about the crash, the mangled car, the way one night of my life is just a smear of headlights and screaming silence.
The bell over the door of The Lantern—coffee shop, mercifully open early—jangles as I step inside. Heat and the smell of espresso wrap around me, cutting the damp. The place is all worn wood and mismatched chairs, low music playing something with too much bass.
There are only three other people inside: a barista with turquoise hair and a septum ring, a guy in a flannel shirt hunched over a laptop, and a man standing at the far end of the counter, back to me. For a second, I think he’s just another customer, broad shoulders in a black henley, dark hair cropped close at the nape.
Then he turns his head slightly. Not enough to look at me, just enough for his profile to cut through the steam.
My skin prickles.
His nose is straight, jaw strong, mouth set in a line that’s not quite frown, not quite anything. The air around him feels…compressed, like the room got smaller to make space for him. There’s something about the way he’s standing, weight settled, attention everywhere, that screams predator without saying a word.
“Morning,” the barista chirps. Her gaze flicks to the rawness at my throat and the faint wince as I clear it. “First time in?”
“Harper,” I say, because my name is a safer topic than the bruised feeling along my vocal cords. “New in town. Can I get a large black coffee and one of those…whatever those cinnamon things are?”
She grins. “Cinnamon knots. Got you.”
As she moves, my eyes are drawn back to the man at the end of the counter against my better judgment. Something in my chest tugs the way it did when I saw the prints. That same strange, sharp awareness coils under my skin, humming along my nerves.
He’s still not looking at me. Just standing there, spine straight as a blade, fingers curled loosely around a to-go cup he hasn’t lifted yet. His nostrils flare, almost imperceptibly, like he’s scenting the air.
The weird thing? I feel scented.
I clear my throat again, more out of habit than necessity, and a sound slips out. Not a word. Just two soft notes, flat from overuse and lack of practice, but unmistakably part of the melody I never remember.
The man stiffens.
In the reflection of the chrome espresso machine, I catch his eyes as he finally looks my way. They’re not the brown I expected. They’re a dark, stormy gray, ringed with something almost golden near the center.
Our gazes lock.
For one electric, excruciating second, the world narrows to the distance between us. The edges of the room go muffled. My pulse trips, every instinct screaming danger and something else, something low and hot and unwelcome.
His jaw tightens. The hand holding the cup squeezes, thick paper creasing.
“Don’t,” he says.
It’s not loud. Not a growl. Just a quietly spoken word that lands with the weight of a command.
I blink. “Excuse me?”
He turns fully now, body angled between me and the rest of the room like he’s unconsciously blocking a line of sight. Up close, he’s even more arresting—tall, shoulders that make the henley work overtime, a scar threading white through one eyebrow like a careless stroke of chalk.
“Don’t hum,” he says. His gaze flicks to my throat, then back to my face. “Not here. Not anywhere.”
Heat flares under my skin, embarrassment tangling with anger. “Wow. Hi. I wasn’t aware the town of Murrow Falls had a no-humming ordinance.”
The barista glances between us, suddenly very focused on the espresso machine.
He ignores the sarcasm. “You’re Harper.” It’s not a question.
Every cell in my body goes on alert. “Do I know you?”
“Not yet.” His eyes darken. “Elijah Hart.”
The name clicks with something Rowan—the guy who sublet me the attic and rattled off a dozen town rumors in under ten minutes—said when I arrived last night. Something about an “overbearing pack alpha” and “mythology LARPers.” I’d tuned half of it out.
“You’re the landlord?” I ask.
His mouth almost twitches. “No. I’m the reason you still have somewhere safe to rent.” He steps closer, and I become acutely aware of how my back is nearly against the pastry case. He doesn’t crowd me, exactly, but he’s inside my space. I can feel the residual cold clinging to his clothes, the faint clean scent of pine and rain and something wild underneath.
“Look,” he says, voice low. “I don’t know what you were told about this place, but if you’re going to stay, you keep your voice to yourself after dark. No singing. No humming. Nothing. Understood?”
The command in his tone claws at something in me. A part of me wants to bare my teeth just because he expects compliance.
I lift my chin. “Do you practice that speech, or is being cryptic and controlling just a natural talent?”
He exhales once through his nose, the closest thing to a laugh I’ve seen from him. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “You’re not funny.”
“I am under-caffeinated and over-lectured. There’s a difference.”
He leans in, just enough that I can see the flecks of gold more clearly near his pupils. Just enough that his next words are for me alone. “Your voice is not a joke, Harper.” My name in his mouth feels like a promise and a warning. “It carries things you don’t understand. Wolves hear fear as music. And whatever is in you?” His gaze skims my throat again, lingering on the redness there. “It’s a siren call for everything I’m trying to keep out.”
My skin goes cold. “Wolves,” I repeat, because out of all of that, that’s the word that sticks.
“Coffee’s up!” the barista announces too brightly, sliding my cup across the counter like a peace offering.
Elijah straightens, that split-second closeness gone. “Stay quiet at night,” he says. “And if you hear anything answer you from the woods—don’t answer back.”
Then he turns and walks out, bell jangling above the door. The fog seems to reach for him as it swings shut, swallowing his silhouette.
I stand there for a beat, heart rattling my ribs, his words trying to rearrange the universe in my head.
Wolves. Answer you. Siren call.
“Okay,” I whisper to my coffee. “What the hell was that?”
By the time I leave The Lantern, my hands have stopped shaking, but the encounter replays in my mind like a song stuck on loop. His eyes. His certainty. Like he knew exactly what I’d been doing in my sleep.
The fog presses closer the farther I walk from Main. My breath fogs the air in little puffs, the sound of my boots on damp pavement loud in the hush. The town thins into tall firs and steep drops, the road winding toward the river. I’m not headed anywhere in particular, just moving because standing still makes my thoughts too loud.
I end up at the overlook Rowan mentioned last night. A rough wooden fence guards the edge where the cliff falls away to the roaring river below. The falls themselves are mostly hidden by mist, but I can hear them, feel the vibration through the soles of my feet.
Mist sticks to my lashes. The air tastes mineral, sharp.
I rest my palms on the damp wood and let my eyes close.
It’s ridiculous, what Elijah said. Wolves, as in actual wolves, are not listening for my off-key sleep-humming like it’s Spotify Premium. The Nameless are a town legend, a story meant to scare kids into staying inside the barrier of streetlights and common sense.
My throat twinges.
Still, my voice stays caged behind my teeth. The urge to hum—to test, to see if anything stirs in the trees—is strong enough that my fingers curl against the fence to ground myself.
I feel watched.
The hair on my arms lifts. I open my eyes.
The woods on the opposite bank are just smudges of darker gray in the fog. No movement. No glowing eyes. Just that prickling sense of attention, like the moment in the coffee shop before Elijah turned, knowing I was there.
“You’re being paranoid,” I tell myself. Out loud, the words are thin, swallowed by the sound of the water.
“Not paranoid enough, if you’re talking to the river already,” a lazy voice says behind me.
I spin, heart leaping into my mouth.
A man lounges against the trunk of a fir a few yards away, one boot braced on the fence, hands tucked into the pockets of a black coat that looks too expensive for this town. His hair is dark, a little too long, falling into eyes the color of old whiskey. There’s a faint smirk playing at his mouth, like he’s permanently one step away from amusement.
“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he says, which is a lie, because he clearly did.
My pulse hammers. “Then maybe don’t sneak up on people at cliff edges.”
He pushes off the tree with unhurried grace, closing some of the distance between us without seeming to move much at all. “Harper Vale.” It rolls off his tongue like he’s savoring it. “Finally.”
Every instinct I have screams question, but my feet stay planted. “You know my name.”
“Of course I do.” His gaze dips to my throat, lingering in a way that makes heat crawl up my neck. “I’ve been looking for your voice for a long time.”
Ice replaces the heat instantly. “I’m sorry, have we met? Because this is coming off extremely stalker-ish.”
He laughs, the sound low, edged. “Names, right. I’m Callum.” His smile is sharp, self-aware. “Callum Drake. Let’s say I’m an enthusiast of rare…songs.”
My fingers tighten on the fence. “You people have got to start working on less creepy introductions.”
“I’d apologize, but I’m on a bit of a schedule.” He steps closer, enough that I pick up a faint scent under the damp air—something metallic and sweet, layered over clean soap and cold night. “You slept well?”
The question is casual. The look he gives me is not.
“None of your business,” I snap.
“On the contrary.” His eyes glint. “It’s very much my business. Because whatever you summoned last night?” He tilts his head toward the woods. “It was loud enough to wake the dead. Or at least annoy the local werewolves.”
The world tilts a little. “You and Elijah should start a podcast,” I say hoarsely. “Delusions of Grandeur: A Cryptid Story.”
“Ah.” Callum’s smile widens, but there’s no warmth in it now, just interest. “So you’ve met our favorite control freak.”
“Elijah Hart?” I say, before I can stop myself.
Callum’s expression flickers, something sharper flashing through it. “He introduced himself. How courteous.” His gaze skates over my face, hungry and assessing. “Let me guess. He told you to shut up and stay inside.”
My silence is answer enough.
“He’s not wrong, exactly,” Callum continues, “but he’s playing a losing game. You can’t cage that.” He nods toward my throat. “It will come out. The only question is whether it kills you when it does.”
Pressure builds in my chest again, the phantom of the song pressing up, wanting out. “You don’t know anything about me.”
Callum’s voice softens in a way that makes the fine bones of my spine want to melt and run. “Harper. I know you’re marked. I can taste it in the air. And if I can?” He gestures toward the fog-drowned woods. “They can, too.”
“The Nameless,” I say, and the word feels wrong and right on my tongue at once, like a half-remembered prayer.
His eyes light like I’ve hit the right note. “Now we’re singing the same chorus.”
Wind whips a strand of hair into my eyes. I shove it back, every nerve ending alive. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because Elijah will tell you to be quiet until your silence breaks you,” Callum says simply. “I’m here to offer you a different option.” He leans in, close enough that I see the faint, inhuman gleam in his gaze where the light hits his pupils wrong. “Learn the song. Control it. Or keep pretending it’s just a nightmare while the things you call come closer every night.”
My heart pounds a wild, painful rhythm that doesn’t match the crash of the falls. “You’re insane.”
“Probably,” he agrees. “But I’m also right.” He steps back, giving me air, his expression thoughtful. “You feel it, don’t you? The way it’s getting stronger. The way the last verse sits just out of reach.”
The last…verse.
Memory snarls in my head—headlights bending, impact, screaming without sound, a child’s voice singing from somewhere far away. My lungs burn like they did in the hospital when they pulled the tube out and I tried to ask what happened, and nothing came.
“Stop,” I whisper.
He does. To his credit, he actually does, the relentless push in his gaze easing. “You’re not ready to hear all of it. Fine.” He pulls a card from his coat and slides it along the damp fence rail toward me. “But you don’t have the luxury of pretending this isn’t real, Harper. Not here. Not anymore.”
The card is plain, the edges a little frayed. A number. A name. Callum Drake.
“What are you?” I ask, before I can stop myself.
His smile turns wry. “Complicated. Half the monsters Elijah sees under his bed. One of the reasons the Nameless know this town exists at all.” His eyes find mine, suddenly naked of humor. “And the one person in Murrow Falls who might help you walk away from this with your throat, and your mind, intact.”
The wind gusts, sending fog curling between us like fingers.
“Why would you help me?” I ask.
For the first time, something like honesty cuts through his expression, sharp enough to hurt. “Because I owe a debt,” he says softly. “And because your voice might be the one thing in this rotten world powerful enough to break my chains as well as yours.”
The river roars. My pulse roars louder.
“Think about it,” Callum says, already backing into the fog, his outline blurring. “But don’t take too long. The Nameless aren’t patient. And neither,” his gaze slides toward the direction of town, “is Elijah.”
“Wait,” I blurt, a hundred questions jamming together. “What debt? Who marked me? What did I call last night?”
He smiles, all teeth and secrets. “That’s the thing about songs, Harper. You don’t get to hear the end until you’re ready to sing it.”
Then he’s gone, swallowed by gray, leaving me alone with the crash of the falls, the burn in my throat, and the card digging into my palm.
I stare at the spot where he vanished, Elijah’s warning and Callum’s invitation twisting together inside me like barbed wire.
Behind my ribs, the melody I never remember hums awake.
For the first time, I’m not sure if I want to silence it—or listen.
