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Alissa stared at the picture on the nightstand for a long time before she finally picked it up. The silver frame was cool beneath her trembling fingers, its edges smudged from the number of times she'd held it over the past week. It was a photo of her and Allison — taken on their very first day in Beacon Hills.
The memory hit her instantly, sharp and clear like a movie playing in her mind. She could almost feel the late-summer breeze that day, could almost hear Allison's nervous laughter as she adjusted the strap of her backpack. Allison had been so anxious about fitting in, about making friends, about starting over again. Alissa, on the other hand, hadn't cared much. It was their second move that year, and she'd long stopped believing in permanence. Beacon Hills had just been another dot on the map — or so she thought.
She had been wrong.
They had stayed. Through Allison's sophomore year and Alissa's junior. Through laughter and late-night talks and shared secrets whispered under blankets. Through heartbreak and discovery and danger. Through everything that bound sisters together.
Now, looking at the photo, Alissa wished more than anything that they had moved again — maybe to Washington, like they'd once planned. Maybe then, Allison would still be alive. Maybe then, their mother would still be with them too.
A single tear slipped down Alissa's cheek, falling onto the glass surface of the frame. She didn't bother wiping it away before another followed. Then another. Her shoulders shook as a broken sob escaped her lips.
She couldn't do this. Not without Allison.
They had always been a team — two halves of one whole — and now that half of her was gone, Alissa didn't know how to keep going.
She wanted to hate her sister. Not for leaving, but for being so good. So kind. So selfless. It was that heart — the same one that had once made Allison her hero — that had also gotten her killed.
If only they had stayed out of the supernatural mess that clung to Beacon Hills like a curse. If only they had lived ordinary lives.
The sound of footsteps broke through her thoughts — heavy, deliberate. Her father's.
Quickly, Alissa brushed her tears away with the back of her sleeve, setting the frame carefully into her bag. She didn't want him to see her breaking again.
Chris Argent appeared in the doorway, hesitating before stepping into the room that had once belonged to his youngest daughter. He looked older now — the lines on his face deeper, the silver in his hair more noticeable under the afternoon light. "Are you ready to go?" he asked softly.
Alissa nodded, though her throat burned. Chris crossed the room, lifting the last box from Allison's bed. Just as he turned to leave, another sob escaped Alissa's lips.
