Ashenbrook, 1943. The morning fog clung to the cobblestones like secrets too heavy to speak. At the edge of the crooked town, in a gray-bricked house with cracked windows and dead roses by the porch, lived Mavis Valtor a beautiful red-haired girl with glowing white skin, and eyes that had seen far too much for fifteen.
She rose quietly, careful not to wake the storm upstairs. Viletta, her stepmother, a bitter woman with venom in her veins, had spent the night pacing and muttering. Mavis already knew what the day held: cold toast, cruel words, and a long shift scrubbing floors at The Gourmet Garage restaurant before hurrying off to Blackwood High.
Her father, Richard Valtor, had long surrendered to his bottles — his once strong voice now slurred into silence. Since her mother died, he became more ghost than man, a shadow in a chair.
Viletta loomed in every room, childless, cruel, and endlessly envious of Mavis's beauty and resilience. And with every year, her hatred deepened.
Mavis tied her apron with trembling fingers. Another day in Ashenbrook. Another day surviving.
But in the deepest corner of her soul, a fire flickered.
And Viletta would soon learn fire cannot be starved.
She tiptoed down the narrow hallway, the wooden floorboards groaning in protest. Every creak was a potential slap. In the kitchen, a single bulb flickered like it, too, was afraid of Viletta.
There on the counter, a half-sliced onion, dry bread, and yesterday's cold tea left for her like a stray dog's offering. Mavis didn't dare touch the tea. Last time she did, she'd found pins at the bottom of the cup. She still had the scar on her lip.
"You're up early," came Viletta's voice, low and sharp like rusted wire.
Mavis turned, careful not to make eye contact. "I have to get to the restaurant before school."
Viletta stood at the kitchen doorway, arms crossed over her bony chest, her silhouette jagged in the light. Her eyes scanned Mavis, not with concern, but hunger the kind that wanted to devour light, not nurture it.
"Still think you're better than me, don't you?" she hissed. "With your glowing skin and your red whore's hair."
Mavis said nothing. She had learned silence was safer than truth.
Viletta stepped closer. "You'd better scrub that restaurant floor clean. If I hear anything less than praise, you'll be eating ash for supper."
Mavis nodded, heart thudding.
She had twenty minutes to escape this house alive.
Mavis slipped past Viletta's shadow and padded into the living room, where the walls were stained with time and silence. The television buzzed faintly in the corner, its screen blinking between static and ghosted news anchors mouthing yesterday's war reports. Richard Valtor sat motionless in his chair, bottle in hand, eyes half-lidded and glazed.
"Dad?" she whispered, almost foolishly.
No response.
"Dad... I'm leaving for work," she tried again, her voice softer now, almost afraid to disturb the dust floating in the light.
The only reply was the flicker of the TV, casting pale blue light across his unshaven face. His jaw slackened slightly, then stilled. A living corpse. A man buried before death.
She swallowed the ache rising in her throat. That man was not coming back.
Slinging her threadbare satchel over one shoulder, she stepped outside into the crisp Ashenbrook morning. The sky hung low, gray and tired, like everything else in this town.
Next door, a familiar figure waved from a rocking chair.
"Nana," Mavis smiled gently, walking over.
The old woman's wrinkled eyes sparkled. "Off to that fancy garage again?"
"Yes ma'am," Mavis said, bending to scratch Mittens, the white cat curled at Nana's feet.
"Mind your steps, darling. And don't let that Viletta steal your shine."
"I won't," Mavis lied with a soft smile.
She straightened, turned toward the hill, and began the long walk toward The Gourmet garage, the morning chill clinging to her coat like a second skin.