Chapter 1: The Night of Betrayal

On the eve of my big wedding, the maple spirit I’d raised since childhood took my form and, with a single finger, stabbed it straight through my heart.

The night air in our suburban Illinois neighborhood was thick and still. The cicadas buzzed beyond the kitchen window, mixing with the distant bark of a neighbor’s dog and the faint smell of cut grass. I sat at my childhood desk, folding the last of my wedding vows, never suspecting what waited in the hallway. I’d spent years tending that old maple out back—brushing leaves from its roots, whispering secrets into its bark—never once thinking the spirit inside could turn on me. But tonight, she shimmered in the hallway mirror, my face on her bones. Before I could scream, she pressed her icy finger into my chest. The pain was a lightning bolt. My mind blanked, panic choking me. I tried to scream, but my voice tangled in my throat—betrayed by the face I’d trusted most. I tasted metal, sharp and sour, like biting my tongue too hard, and heard the shattering of my own heart.

She gouged out my eye and, humming like it was just another charm, strung my stolen eye onto a silver chain. Then, wearing my skin, she stepped into my white dress—ready to walk the aisle with Michael.

I never imagined that old ghost would be so brutal—her hands steady, her voice cold as she carved away the part of me that saw everything. The last thing I felt was her breath on my cheek, the metallic jingle of my own eye as she strung it on a chain. Then, wearing my skin, she stepped into my white dress, ready to walk the aisle with Michael.

Dad, Mom, my brother... none of them realized she wasn’t me. Their laughter felt like static—loud, cheerful, and completely out of reach.

Even when she laughed, slipped her hand into Mom’s, or fussed over Dad’s tie, no one blinked. In the family photos, her smile matched mine to the dimple. She even knew how to press her head to my brother’s shoulder the way I always did. Not one of them saw through the perfect mask—only I hovered at the edge, invisible, heart pounding like thunder in my empty chest.

But only he—when she lowered her head in shy submission—the easy warmth in his eyes snuffed out, his stare going hard and flat—like he’d slammed a door shut inside.

Michael, always the tough one, the only boy in our circle who wouldn’t back down from a fight, stood with his jaw clenched. Michael’s fierce reputation was known all over Chicago. He grew up running with the South Side crowd, where a tough look could keep you safe and a soft heart got you stomped. When she tried to play the blushing bride, ducking her gaze in some borrowed show of modesty, I watched the warmth in his eyes go out like a lamp at dusk. For a second, his face twisted—hard and haunted—scarier than any temper I’d seen on him before.