Hour of the Moon

Chapter 1: The Origins

Exile in Ink

Humiliation wasn't the right word. It was too polite, too civilized for what I felt.

"We are not TMZ, Keiran. We're not a gossip blog scraping for clicks!" Amy's voice cracked across the newsroom. "This article is deplorable!"

The word hung there, sharp and final. A few interns looked up from their screens before pretending to type again.

I folded my arms. "That feels a little dramatic, don't you think? You asked for celebrity gossip. I gave you celebrity gossip."

Amy sighed, pushing her orange-rimmed glasses higher. "The problem isn't what you wrote—it's how. It's lifeless. You used to make people feel something. Now you're just arranging sentences."

That stung because it was true.

"I'm not firing you," she said after a pause, her tone softening but not losing its edge. "But you need a reset. I'm transferring you to our North Carolina branch. Cherokee."

My mouth fell open. "Cherokee? As in the South?"

"Exactly. Fresh air, slower pace. You're twenty-five, Keiran. You've still got time to find your edge again."

She meant well, but it sounded like exile. Still, maybe she was right. California wasn't home anymore—not since I'd found my boyfriend in bed with my best friend.

"When do I leave?"

"Monday."

⸻

As I stepped off the plane into Charlotte Douglas International Airport, my false optimism about new beginnings evaporated the moment the stale air hit my face.

"I could use some tequila," I muttered, yawning through the exhaustion.

Amy had said someone from the Cherokee office would pick me up and drive me to my new apartment. I scanned the crowd, wondering what kind of person volunteered for airport pickup duty in the middle of North Carolina.

I'd grown up in the city and gone to college in L.A.—mountains and small towns weren't exactly my natural habitat. Cherokee, North Carolina even sounded foreign, like a place that existed more in folklore than in real life.

And if I was being honest, part of me wondered if Amy's decision had a hint of bias. A Black woman sent to "reconnect with simplicity" down South? Cute. But this industry wasn't built for fairness. It was built for survival, and right now, I needed the paycheck.

When I'd told my mother about the transfer, she'd said, "It's only three months, sweetheart."
Three months. My ass.

My Google search had told me everything I needed to know: Cherokee sat on the reservation of the Eastern Band of Cherokee Indians—population small, scenery dramatic, and nightlife nonexistent.

"Keiran!"

A tall blonde woman in a green-and-blue flannel was waving a white poster that read Welcome Keiran in bold marker. Her lipstick was as red as her smile.

"Savannah Michael," she said, enveloping me in a hug before I could react. "Amy told me everything! You must be exhausted."

Her accent was soft, syrupy—Carolina cadence, warm but precise.

"Nice to meet you," I said, trying to match her energy.

She eyed my luggage. "Lord, you packed for a year! Don't worry, there's plenty of room in the truck."

She wasn't kidding—her cherry-red Chevy gleamed like a Valentine's card. She loaded my suitcases herself, lifting the heaviest one as if it weighed nothing.

The forty-five-minute drive from Charlotte to Cherokee wound through stretches of forest so green it almost hurt to look at. Savannah chatted the whole way—about her three kids, her Duke degree, her blog The Southern Belle, her husband who thought moving to Cherokee was madness.

"I'm a quarter Cherokee myself," she said. "My daddy's half, but you wouldn't know it. Still, I want my kids to grow up knowing where they come from."

"I think that's important," I said, though my attention drifted to the blur of trees beyond the window. The woods seemed to move differently here, as if they breathed.

"Cherokee's special," Savannah continued. "It's not for everyone, but if you stay long enough, you'll feel the magic."

I wasn't sure magic was what I needed. But she said it with such conviction that I nodded anyway.

⸻

By the time we reached town, dusk had settled in soft and purple.

Downtown Cherokee looked like a film set from another decade—wooden storefronts beside modern cafés, locals gathered on benches like they'd been there since the beginning of time.

"Our office is right there next to the bakery," Savannah pointed. "Got a facelift a few years back thanks to funding out of Raleigh."

A few more turns brought us to a quiet street lined with new townhomes. She parked in front of one and smiled proudly. "Welcome home."

The apartment—Unit 204—was bright, clean, and smelled faintly of fresh paint. Cream walls, hardwood floors, beige sectional. A cozy, neutral dream.

"I made sure it was fully furnished," Savannah said. "Washer, dryer, Wi-Fi—all the essentials. The company covers rent, you handle the rest."

"I'm impressed," I admitted. "Honestly, I was expecting something with rats and character."

She laughed. "We do things differently in the mountains."

Her phone rang, and her smile faltered. "My babysitter just fed my son a peach—he's allergic. Lord help me, I have to run. Text me if you need anything."

Then she was gone, tires crunching gravel as she sped off into the night.

I dragged my luggage inside, dropped everything in the living room, and stood there in silence. The air hummed with quiet.

I should've gone to bed. Instead, I opened my phone and searched for food.

The Howler Bar & Grill—open till midnight.

Perfect.

⸻

The cab dropped me off ten minutes later. The Howler was bustling—packed with couples, college kids, and locals chasing Saturday night. The place had the charm of an old dive: scratched tables, neon beer signs, music just loud enough to drown out thought.

I slid into a corner booth and ordered a burger and fries. The first bite was so greasy and perfect it almost made me cry.

Afterward, I crossed the street to a smaller building pulsing with blue light: Moody Blues Jazz Lounge.

The sound of piano and saxophone slipped through the doorway as I entered, soft and hypnotic. Inside, the lighting was low, the crowd smaller, older. The air smelled of whiskey and lilac perfume.

"Welcome," said a red-haired bartender with a practiced smile. "What can I get you?"

"Pinot Grigio," I said, scanning the room. "Maybe a Cosmopolitan after."

She nodded and turned away. I exhaled, letting the music ease something tight in my chest.

Then—

"I don't think I've ever seen you around before."

The voice came from my left, low and rich, like velvet dragged across gravel.

I jumped, hand flying to my chest. "Jesus—you scared the life out of me."

I turned—and froze.

He was tall, impossibly still, the dim light catching on sharp cheekbones and skin that looked carved from night itself. But it was his eyes that stopped me.

Not brown. Not hazel. Black. Entirely, unnervingly black.

They didn't just look at me—they read me. And for one strange, suspended heartbeat, I forgot where I was.

Forgot who I was.

Then he blinked, and the world resumed its spin.