Mira wedged the phone between her shoulder and ear as she shouldered open the door to her Montreal apartment, nearly losing her grip on everything at once. A half-finished chai tea sloshed precariously in one hand, while her gym bag, still holding her damp clothes from training, dragged against her hip from hanging on her shoulder, and her keys dangled from the fingertips of the other as if they were daring her to drop them again.

Her hair, wind-whipped and untamed, stuck in frizzy waves to her flushed cheeks, and the damp hoodie clinging to her back made her regret not changing at the gym. She hated other people’s showers, especially the weirdly tiled ones that smelled faintly of mildew and bad choices.

“Mira, please tell me you have something for me,” came Victoria’s voice, more crackle than human at this point, thanks to her outdated Bluetooth and the terrible reception in Mira’s building.

“You mean besides a growing tea dependency and a squirrel that’s most definitely plotting my demise?” Mira kicked the door shut behind her with more force than necessary, letting her gym bag collapse where it fell.

“Mira—”

“Relax.” She sighed, toeing off her sneakers. “I’ve got pages. Not my best work, but there’s a heartbeat. And bones. I just need to stitch the damn thing together.”

“The readers are already feral. Do you know how many emails I’ve had asking whether The Thornehurst Legacy ends in blood or betrayal?”

Mira smirked, padding barefoot into the kitchen. “Why not both?”

“I’m serious. The House Beneath the Pines sold out its second print run. You leave them hanging again, and they’re going to riot. Possibly at your doorstep.”

“I’ll send you chapters by the weekend.”

“Good. Because haunted forests or not, your ass is on a deadline.”

Mira took a sip of her now-cold tea and leaned her hip against the counter. “It’s the haunted forests. They basically write the book for me.”

She stepped into the living room and froze.

There, on the floor, just inside the door, something she’d missed in her whirlwind entrance lay a single envelope.

Not mailed. No return address. No stamp. Just thick, creamy paper, sealed with deep red wax pressed into the shape of a crescent moon wrapped around antlers.

“Mira?” Victoria asked. “You still there?”

She crouched slowly, fingers hovering for a second before she picked it up. Her gut tensed, a prickle racing along her spine.

“Yeah. I’ve gotta call you back.”

Victoria barely got out a “Wait, what—” before Mira ended the call and tossed her phone onto the couch.

The envelope felt heavier than it should. More of a wedding invitation than a piece of mail. Cracking the seal gently, the wax broke with a faint snap, and the thick card stock inside unfolded.

Mira Danvers:

You are invited to the Monashee Gathering, held one week prior to the full moon.

We made travel arrangements for you. Your presence is expected.

—A Friend

That was it. No address. No sender. No explanation.

Her brows knit together. The wording wasn’t threatening. Not exactly. But there was an edge to it, a finality, the kind of message you didn’t ignore. Not if you ever wanted to sleep again.

She turned the envelope upside down, and something slid into her palm.

A plane ticket and an old photograph. Her breath caught as she stared into the face of her mother.

Smiling, impossibly young, standing in a sunlit clearing Mira didn’t recognize, her hand resting gently over a rounded belly. There was a weathered but legible wooden sign in the background: Monashee Gathering.

Mira slowly sank onto the edge of the couch, the photo trembling slightly in her fingers. She had never seen this picture before, never heard of Monashee, but something prickled at the thought of finding out more about the mother she never knew. The mother who had died when she was just a new born.

She leaned over to grab her phone and typed Monashee into the search bar with unsteady fingers.

“Monashee Mountains, British Columbia,” she read aloud, her voice barely above a whisper.

Then she was dialing.

“Hello?” came the familiar voice on the other end.

“Luca.”

He heard it right away. “What’s wrong?”

“I got a letter containing a photo and a plane ticket.” She stared at the envelope in her lap. “It’s from someplace called Monashee.”

There was a pause. Not silence—Mira knew the difference. Luca was calculating, choosing his words with surgical precision.

“I’ve heard of it,” he said eventually. “It’s… beautiful. Quiet. Old ties. Most people don’t talk about it anymore.”

“It’s connected to her, isn’t it?” she asked softly. “To my mom.”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But… maybe. If she had been there, and they’re reaching out now—”

Mira pressed the photo tighter to her chest.

Luca’s voice dropped an octave, gentler. “I’d feel better if I came with you. But if something’s pulling you there, maybe you’re meant to follow it.”

She went still, the kind of still that came from too many thoughts crashing into each other.

“I thought you were going to tell me not to go.”

“I was going to,” he said quietly. “But you’ve always had good instincts, kiddo. If they’re telling you to check it out… then I think you should.”

“You sure?”

“Nope,” he said, a hint of his usual charm slipping through. “But I trust you. Just… be careful. Don’t rush into anything.”

“I won’t.”

“And Mira?”

“Yeah?”

“Trust your instincts. But don’t trust anyone too easily.”

She hung up the phone, still warm against her palm, and stared down at the envelope.

Someone knew where to find her, knew which photo to use, and they knew she wouldn’t be able to walk away from the chance to learn something, anything, about the mother she had never known. She didn’t know if it was fate or a trap, but either way… she was going.