Chapter 36

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Alice Cullen Pov

The darkness of Forks feels different tonight.

It's not just the time—it's just gotten dark—nor the damp weather that seeps through the trees like a whisper. It's a feeling. An invisible knot tightening around destiny. Something is unraveling. Something is changing.

Edward feels it too. His steps are more tense, his gaze duller. He doesn't say anything, but I read it in his posture. In his forced silence. I've never seen him like this.

Nate Winter's house isn't hard to find, especially in Forks, where everyone knows everyone. It's a traditional, two-story structure bordered by a garden that looks like a construction project and a path of poorly aligned stones. There are no vehicles in the driveway.

"Probably just his grandmother," Edward murmurs, his tone barely vibrating in the air. Barely a breathy thought. "We can't afford to waste time."

I nod. In the blink of an eye, we're against the back wall, and, with a clean, precise leap, we reach the eaves of the second floor. We look for an entrance. Luckily, there's a window large enough to squeeze through. It's closed, of course, but not secured.

This is Mrs. Winter's room.

We find her asleep, curled up under a wool blanket. Her breathing is calm and measured. At her feet, a curious-looking elderly cat spots us and hisses softly.

I lean toward him. I feel compassion for his reflection. He doesn't fear me, not really. He only feels the strange echo of what I am.

"Calm down," I whisper, barely making a sound. I bend down and stroke his head with two fingers. He blinks, yawns… and goes back to sleep. As if I've told him a secret that calms him.

I smile tenderly at him. It comforts me that some creatures can stop perceiving me as a threat. Even if it's just for a moment.

Edward beckons me, and we carefully leave the room, slipping down the hallway like mist. Each step is measured. We don't touch the floor for more than a second. Our stealth is absolute.

Nate's room is at the end of the hall. When we walk in, I'm struck by how... absent he feels.

Everything is clean and tidy… but not lived in.

There are no posters on the walls. No personal mementos. No human scent. No trace of joy. It's functional, that's all. The only thing that could be considered disorganized is the bed, which appears to have been left unmade at the last minute.

But there is no soul.

An open box on the floor catches my eye. Its entire contents have been meticulously laid out: photographs, notebooks, neatly arranged sheets of paper. It's not clutter. It's a study. Analysis. Obsession, perhaps.

I bend down and pick up one of the photographs. A family. A smiling young woman, a man almost identical to Nate—only maybe not as tall and definitely a little skinny—and a boy. Nate. He can't be more than five years old.

But what strikes me isn't his age. It's his smile.

So spacious. So carefree. So… human.

This isn't the Nate I know. The one I share a class with and who hasn't let his guard down since our first meeting. Nate is polite, brilliant, and calculating, but also somewhat distant.

This child, on the other hand, shines.

An unexpected sadness washes over me, like a wave of ice soaking my chest.

How do you lose a light like that?

I remember what he told me in class that time, in the middle of our question-and-answer game, which seemed more like an interrogation disguised as flirtatiousness: that his parents had recently died. I remember being moved by the expression on his face then. For a moment, the mask of the Nate, that Edward fears had fallen away, and only a wounded boy remained.

But here is proof of what he lost.

I look around the room again, now more closely.

"This isn't his home," I murmur. "It's just a place where he sleeps."

The room has no history. It's like an unpacked suitcase. As if Nate didn't expect to stay long. As if he could leave at any moment.

A pang of empathy runs through me.

Jasper felt it. A deep sadness wrapped around him like a blanket. But seeing it now, printed in old photos and on empty walls, makes it more real. Closer.

I realize I've stopped looking. I'm just... feeling. Feeling for someone who carries more than either of us saw.

"It's here," Edward says suddenly.

I approach. He's holding an old, leather-bound notebook. The pages are worn with age.

"It's a journal," he explains. "Quillette Stories. Written by his father."

I take it carefully. The letters are carefully, handwritten. They tell of legends, ancient names, and symbols I recognize from Carlisle and the long conversations about the treaty. And among the stories: the Cold Ones.

"So he found out because of this," I whisper.

"Maybe," Edward says, going back through the box.

Then it stops.

"Alice…"

His voice has no urgency, but it does have a tone of concern that chills me.

He's bent down. He's holding a worn leather sheath. He opens it slowly.

Inside is a knife. Small. Once beautiful. The blade shines a pale blue as if light were bending over it.

Something about that knife makes me nervous. As if she shouldn't exist.

Edward takes it gently. He studies it for a moment as if trying to decipher its nature. Then, without warning, he runs his finger along the edge.

"Edward!" I exclaim instinctively. But it's too late.

A thin cut crosses the skin of his finger.

I freeze. Completely motionless.

That shouldn't be possible. Nothing should be able to penetrate his skin.

My gaze falls on the small line marked on his finger, almost shocking against his ash-pale skin.

"Are you okay?" I ask in a barely audible voice. But the answer is irrelevant. We're both staring at him. He's also in shock.

"This... this doesn't make sense," I mutter, unable to tear my gaze away. "Edward... what kind of knife is this?"

The house remains silent. But somehow, the air has changed.

We are no longer the only ones on alert.

And I can't help but think that we just opened a door that should have remained closed.