The birthmark throbbed again, a dull pulse beneath my skin, as if something inside me was trying to wake up. I rubbed it absently, my fingers tracing the familiar shape just below my collarbone. A cherry blossom. Or, at least, that's what my mom said.
It never used to ache like this. Not until recently.
I leaned against the windowsill, watching the morning mist curl around the edges of Hastings Manor's front lawn. It clung to the wrought-iron gate like ghostly fingers slithering across the stone driveway. The air had that early autumn chill, sharp and laced with damp earth. The kind of morning that made you want to curl back into bed and pretend the outside world didn't exist.
I wasn't that lucky.
"Selene?"
My mom's voice cut through the silence. I turned, catching sight of her in the doorway.
Celeste Hastings, regal as ever, arms crossed over the soft fabric of her sweater. Even in the dim light, the streaks of silver threading through her dark hair were visible, a reminder of how long she'd carried the weight of the coven on her shoulders.
She was worried. I could see it in the way her mouth pressed into a thin line, the way her gaze flickered to my hands—still absently rubbing at the birthmark.
"You're going to be late," she said.
I forced my fingers still and pushed off the windowsill. "I know."
"Caroline's outside."
I grabbed my bag, slinging it over my shoulder. Mom didn't move from the doorway, though. She stayed rooted there, eyes searching my face the way she always did when she thought I was hiding something.
I wasn't. Not really.
"Mija." Her voice softened. "You've been quiet lately."
I swallowed. "I'm fine."
She didn't look convinced.
Some days, it was easy to pretend she was really my mom. That I wasn't just some abandoned kid she found on her doorstep, wrapped in a green baby blanket, with my name stitched into the corner.
