The Soul in the Shadows (Shadowhunters ff)

Chapter 1 - Whispers from Shadows

It started with a whisper. A faint sound, barely there, soft as autumn wind brushing against her cheek. So faint she could have easily dismissed it as her imagination.

And that's exactly what Clary had done. It had only been a couple of months since her memories had returned, and she was exhausted. Everyone had been so excited to get her back. Luke had hugged her so hard she'd nearly cracked a rib. Magnus threw her a 'homecoming' party at his place with Alec. Izzy had resumed training with her, preparing her for the parabatai ritual. Simon was relentless in catching her up on everything she'd missed, detailing every change in excruciating detail. And Jace-Jace hadn't willingly left her side once since she'd come back.She was happy, truly. Of course she was.

But sometimes, not often, but on nights like this, she questioned if she'd really returned at all. Not as the same person, at least. As the person everyone expected her to be. It felt as though two different people existed behind her face: the Clary she'd been before losing her memories, and the one she'd become after. And neither of them seemed certain how they felt.

Clary stared up at the ceiling of her small Brooklyn apartment. Her friends wanted her to move back to the Institute; she'd promised them she would, as soon as she packed up her things. She just needed a bit more time. Most of her belongings were already in boxes, and Jace had been asking for weeks when he could come pick them up. But she wasn't ready-not yet. She still needed to box her art supplies, tell the Academy she was officially dropping out. After that, she could move. But on nights like this, lying awake and tracing shadows across her ceiling, she knew there was more to it than just packing.

She pushed herself up, catching her reflection in the dim early morning light-the ghostly outlines of two pale faces staring back at her from the window. She blinked, focusing, and found only her own tired face looking back. Nothing out of the ordinary. She hadn't told anyone, but this wasn't the first time she'd thought she'd seen his face in her reflection. Or heard his voice. Or felt a chill in the moments between breaths. At first, she'd doubted what she was sensing, but two weeks ago, it had changed. She'd seen him in the mirror, as if he was in the room, standing behind her. A face, she would never be able to forget.

She closed her eyes tightly, willing the memory of Jonathan's face to fade. But it lingered, branded on her eyelids. With a frustrated sigh, she pushed herself out of bed, fumbling in the dark to find something to throw on. There was no point in lying awake if sleep wasn't coming. Instead, like so many restless nights before, she felt drawn to the rooftop.

The rusty maintenance door groaned as she slipped through, and a chilly September breeze greeted her, sharp and bracing. The city was asleep, shrouded in an unnatural stillness, as if even New York held its breath at this hour. She tied her hair back into a messy bun, a habit she'd picked up at the Art Academy when stray strands would always get in the way. Somehow, that never happened while fighting demons.

Sometimes it felt like that life-the one she lived after losing her memories-was the life she might have led in another universe, one without angels or demons. Or shadowhunters. Maybe in that life, her family would still be together. Maybe her mom would be with Valentine, a Valentine who'd never turned mad. Maybe she'd have a brother who wasn't broken by darkness, who hadn't tried to kill everyone she loved. But this wasn't that universe. She would never get that life back.

It had been over a year since Jonathan died. Since she'd killed him. The memory wipe had spared her from confronting the weight of that choice at the time, but moments like this, alone with her thoughts, left her no escape. She'd killed her own brother. And though he'd been beyond saving-even though they all called her a hero for it-she could never forgive herself.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, breaking the stillness. She pulled it out, already guessing who it would be. Jace, letting her know he'd be there soon to pick her up. He always did. Jace had never liked her staying in this apartment. He'd insisted it wasn't safe. She'd argued there was nothing left to fear. They'd gone back and forth, eventually agreeing that she'd move back to the Institute. Which she would do. Eventually. The first few nights, he'd insisted on staying guard outside her apartment. She'd hated it-hated the worry in his eyes and the way he wouldn't let go.

Now, they'd settled into this new ritual: Jace picking her up every morning, ferrying her to the Institute, "just to be safe." Safe from what? She still wasn't sure.

The past few months hadn't been easy for either of them. Sometimes it felt like old times, almost. But other times, the year they'd spent apart loomed between them, changing them in ways they were still learning to navigate. She loved him, and he loved her. But sometimes that didn't seem enough to bridge the gap.

She took one last look over the city, the edges of buildings softening as the first light crept in, dissolving the night. Someday, she thought, she'd be able to do the same-to move forward, to let go of the shadows the past two years had cast over her life. But not yet. Not today. She closed her eyes, took a long, shuddering breath, and turned away from the edge.

Slowly, she returned to her apartment. Her Shadowhunter gear lay neatly folded on top of one of the moving boxes, with her stele balanced on top, its carved edges catching the morning light. The gear looked so stark against everything else in the room: her art supplies scattered in one corner, paint smudges staining the floor, bright splashes of color breaking up the gentle hues of her decor. Then there were the scattered clothes still waiting to be packed, strewn around like memories of a simpler life she wasn't ready to box away.

Clary picked up the gear. Even though it was just her light training set, it felt heavier than any other clothes she owned. Like an armor that felt too heavy on her shoulders. She felt like a child dressing up as something she wasn't-and yet, deep down, something she still was. With a sigh, she picked up her stele, her fingers tracing the intricate carvings. When her memories had returned, so had her ability to create runes, though she'd mostly avoided doing so. Raziel had forgiven her, but she didn't want to risk his wrath-or Jace's. He was so concerned about her safety he'd lock her up if he could. Which was also why she hadn't told him about the whispers of Jonathan. No need to give him one more thing to worry about, especially if it was just in her mind.

She tightened her weapons belt, attached her kindjal blades, and pulled on Jace's oversized leather jacket. She glanced out the window and saw him already waiting by his bike. She'd learned to be punctual after that one morning she overslept. Freaking out, he had pounded on her door, nearly giving her a heart attack.

Ready to leave, she hesitated by the door, one hand hovering over the handle. He really cared for her so much. And despite everything, he had been so patient with her. He had never really pushed her about her reluctance to return to the Institute, as if he understood. Maybe she could take a small step today. To show him she was trying too. She turned, picked up a small box of clothes, and held it under her arm. She really was moving to the Institute. Eventually.

She jogged down the stairs to the front door. Hearing the click as it opened, Jace turned, a gentle smile spreading over his face. Clary felt a flutter in her stomach. Even with the dark circles under his eyes, he was still gorgeous. His gaze shifted to the box in her hand, and his smile brightened, but he didn't comment.

"Morning," he murmured, stepping closer.

Clary closed the distance and leaned in for a kiss, the box awkwardly wedged between them.

Jace chuckled and took the box from her hands. "And how exactly were you planning to hold this on the bike?"

"You tell me. I'm just the passenger," Clary replied with an innocent shrug, brushing past him toward the bike.

She thought she heard a quiet, amused scoff behind her as she picked up her helmet. Jace secured the box to the bike's back with his cross-body weapon strap, giving it a firm tug to test its stability.

"You look good," he said, checking the box. "I like your hair that way."

"Oh," she said, reaching up to touch her messy bun. "Thanks." Sometimes, she wondered if he still liked how she looked. Her red hair was longer now, bangs constantly slipping into her eyes during training. Once, they'd fallen right in her line of sight mid-spar, and Jace had accidentally nicked her with his blade. Ever since, he'd insisted she tie them back.

Satisfied with the box, Jace pulled on his helmet and climbed onto the bike. Clary did the same, fastening the strap under her chin as the first rays of morning sun spilled over the rooftops, brushing away the night's chill. She climbed on behind Jace, wrapping her arms around him as the engine roared to life.

As they sped off, she heard it again-a voice, faint but unmistakable, calling her name. Her breath caught, and she glanced over her shoulder. Just as the last shadows surrendered to the new day, she thought she saw it: the silhouette of a man standing in front of her apartment, dissolving like mist in the first light of dawn.