E Z R A

The hum doesn’t fade when I leave the chapel. It follows me down the corridor, low and steady, crawling under my skin like the echo of something that shouldn’t have a rhythm. My name, frosted on the glass, whispered by the bell itself, burns behind my eyes every time I blink.

Lira stays inside with him. I see her silhouette through the door’s stained glass, bent over Callen’s arm, her hands still shaking. That glow between them won’t die. It just pulses, my pulse, his curse, her choice.

Outside, the fog presses against the windows, listening. I should stay. I should demand answers. Instead, I turn toward the parking lot, toward the one person who still thinks running can save him.

Deacon’s voice crackles through my phone: “I’m leaving town tonight, Quinn. I’m not dying for a school curse.”

I stare at the frost crawling across my reflection in the windshield and whisper, “No one ever leaves Hollowbrook.”

But I’m already dialing back.

The map looks like a strategy, but it’s panic disguised in ink.
Noor’s lines, precise, looping, almost beautiful like snake across the paper like veins of logic. She’s muttering under her breath, something about resonance valves and pressure release. It sounds scientific. Controlled. Not like death chasing us in a car.

“This is just math,” she insists, more to herself than me. “If the bell acts like a closed system, we just need a vent. Deacon’s route, if he drives fast enough it might open one.”

Might. The word makes my jaw lock.

“Send him the coordinates,” I say, and my voice comes out too flat. Leadership tone. The one that means don’t look at Lira.
But I look anyway.

She’s at the edge of the parking lot, crouched by the infirmary steps, fingers still red from cleaning Callen’s arm. His sleeve is rolled up, the blue-steel mark dim now but pulsing faintly, like it’s remembering her touch. She isn’t even speaking, just watching the glow with that quiet, trembling focus she saves for things that scare her.

It should scare her. Him. All of this.
Instead, it looks intimate.

Noor’s voice drags me back. “He’s moving. Passing Pike Road now.”

Through the radio, Deacon’s breath comes ragged. Tires screech, crows scream above him. The static cuts in and out like something else is breathing on the line.

“I’m not waiting around, Ezra,” Deacon shouts. “You said this backroad’s clear..”

“It is,” I say, too fast. “You’re almost past the town border.”

Almost. Another cursed word. No one’s ever made it past almost.

Ryke leans against the hood, pretending to be calm. “If he hits the sign before it freezes, he’s good, right?”

I nod, but my stomach twists. The Hollowbrook town sign looms in my mind, paint peeling, letters always slick with condensation even on dry days. Fog loves it too much.

The static sharpens, and Deacon’s voice drops into a whisper. “You hear that?”

I do.
The bell fainted under the engine hum. Low and distant, but moving.

Noor glances at me, eyes wide. “That’s not possible. The source frequency’s traveling.”

A chill needles up my spine. Traveling. That means it’s following him.

I look back toward the infirmary. Lira’s head snaps up, as if she heard it too.

For one heartbeat, her gaze locks with mine across the parking lot. Then she looks away, toward Callen. The mark on his arm flares, just once, a pulse of blue light that syncs perfectly with the sound bleeding through Deacon’s radio.

Resonance.
I know it before Noor even says it. “The toll’s riding the airwaves,” she whispers. “It’s hunting through signal bleed.”

Static bursts over the line. Then Deacon’s voice: “Something’s in the road..”
The transmission cuts to a screech of metal.

“Deacon!” I shout into the mic. “Keep driving! Don’t stop!”

The next sound is worse, feathers beating against the windshield, hundreds of them. The crows aren’t fleeing. They’re guiding.

Noor’s eyes go wide. “They’re triangulating him.”

Fog slams into the edges of the lot like a wall. Even from miles away, I can hear the bell’s undertone rolling through the static, low, metallic, patient. The road itself hums.

“Come on, come on…” I mutter, tracing Deacon’s route with my finger. “If he passes the trestle, he’s clear.”

Ryke peers over my shoulder. “What if the trestle isn’t there anymore?”

It’s a stupid question, but the way he says it makes my skin crawl. The map doesn’t look right. The paper’s cold under my hands, too cold. Frost is spreading from the edges of the print like the town itself is closing in.

Then the headlights on the livestream dashcam flicker. For a second, we see him. Deacon, pale and sweating, knuckles white on the steering wheel. His breath fogs the inside of the car like he’s drowning in air.

“Ezra,” he pants. “The road..”

Behind him, the lines on the highway shimmer. The painted divider turns to frost, creeping fast, like ink pulled through veins. The sign ahead HOLLOWBROOK CITY LIMIT cracks straight down the middle.

Noor slams the laptop shut. “It’s looping. The road’s looping him back.”

My heartbeat trips. “No. No, he’s almost out. He’s..”

GONG.

The sound crashes through the radio so loud it rattles the SUV’s frame. The windshield fogs instantly, inside and out. Lira flinches, hands flying to her ears. Ryke swears, half ducking. Noor stares at the dashboard readout; every needle spins to zero.

Through the static, I hear it, the shatter. Glass exploding, tires screaming. Then silence.

“Deacon?” I whisper. “Deacon, answer me.”

Nothing. Just the faint scrape of something dragging across the pavement.

The crows outside the lot take flight all at once, black wings slicing the fog. The bell’s echo stretches thin, distant and then fades.

Lira’s voice, soft, trembling: “Ezra… what happened?”

I can’t say it. Not yet. The logic is gone. The map is just ice and ink. And somewhere far ahead, the road has claimed another name.

The road outside the gates is silent now.
Too silent. The fog’s gone still, like it’s holding its breath before the echo comes back. Noor checks the radio again, cycling through static. “Nothing,” she whispers. “He’s off the grid.”

Lira’s already moving. “We have to go.”

“Lira, wait..” I reach for her, but she’s faster, running toward the van. Ryke swears and follows, tossing me the keys like we’ve done this before, because we have, too many times.

The drive out is chaos made of headlights and panic. The closer we get to the trestle, the thicker the frost becomes, crawling up road signs and power lines. Crows line the guardrails like sentries, beaks tapping in rhythm. Tink. Tink. Tink. Counting.

Noor grips the dash. “This isn’t just residue. The bell’s still active.”

Lira’s knuckles whiten on the wheel. “Then we end it.”

She shouldn’t sound that sure. She shouldn’t sound anything like Callen.

The fog parts just enough to show us the wreck. Deacon’s car is halfway off the embankment, nose buried in frost, crusted weeds. The windshield’s gone, shards glinting pale blue like glass turned to ice.

“Deacon!” Ryke’s out first, sliding on the frozen asphalt. Noor’s flashlight catches him moving, barely, dragging himself out of the driver’s side. His skin’s gray around the lips, frost climbing his throat like vines.

Lira drops beside him, hand hovering over his chest. “He’s breathing.”

Not for long. I can see it in the way his breath fogs, how the air bends above his ribs. The bell took what it wanted; it’s just waiting for the final note.

He looks at me, eyes unfocused. “Did we… make it out?”

My throat locks. I could lie. I should. But the frost spreading under his body says otherwise. “Almost.”

He exhales once. The sound hitches, then fades. Frost races over the asphalt, spreading from his fingertips. Noor gasps, stepping back.

Lira stays still, whispering his name over and over, like she can call him back.

Something in me snaps.
Maybe it’s the hum of the bell still vibrating through the car frame, maybe it’s the way she says his name like mine never mattered.

“I love you,” I blurt out. The words rip through the cold. “I’ve always loved you.”

She turns toward me, eyes wide, empty of everything but shock. Her hand is still on Deacon’s arm. She doesn’t answer.

Of course she doesn’t. She’s looking past me, at the frost crawling up the wreck, where the bell’s mark burns faintly blue.

Noor’s voice cuts the silence. “Ezra…”

The ledger’s glow reflects off the ice, a flare so bright it paints the trees silver. A name rises through the frost, carving itself clean across the hood.

EZRA QUINN — DUE.

For a heartbeat, I can’t breathe. The glow doesn’t come from the ledger this time. It comes from me, tiny veins of light threading across my wrist, up my arm, like frost blooming inside the skin.

Then the air shifts.
Bootsteps crunch through the frozen grass.

Callen steps into the crash site, eyes shadowed, frost dusting his hair like snow. His breath steams in the glow of my name.

He doesn’t look surprised. Only tired.
“I was drawn here,” he says quietly. “But you weren’t.”

The bell hums once, low, final, alive.