Santa Carla, 1987.

The sun dipped low behind the Santa Carla cliffs, staining the sky rust-red as the Emerson twins stood at opposite ends of the strange old house, half-buried in boxes and dust. Grandpa had warned them not to touch his taxidermy, but Helena had already glared a stuffed gopher into submission and stacked her books on top of it.

“Finally,” she muttered, tossing her boots in the corner of her room. “I thought we’d be buried alive under Sam’s comic books.”

From the hallway, Michael appeared, his hair tousled, sleeves rolled, shirt smudged with something he couldn’t identify but assumed was old moth wing or dead spider. He leaned against her doorframe, arms crossed.

“You done nesting?” he teased lightly, eyes flicking to the blackout scarf she’d already thumbtacked over her window.

“Please. I’m the only one here who knows how to make a room look like a room and not a dump truck accident.”

He smirked, stepping inside. Her room smelled like books and incense she hadn’t lit yet. A few of her rings clinked in a tray on the dresser. It already looked like her.

“Sam’s already claimed the biggest closet,” Michael said, dropping onto the edge of her bed without asking. “He called dibs while I was trying to untangle Grandpa’s fishing gear from my duffel bag.”

“He’s 13. He needs to win something.”

Michael exhaled, glancing at the ceiling. It creaked faintly, like the whole house breathed under its own strange rhythm. “This place is weird.”

Helena didn’t answer right away. She slid open one of her drawers and stared at the few belongings she managed to keep—her journals, her copy of Frankenstein, a broken necklace chain.

“Yeah,” she finally said, voice quieter. “But it’s not Phoenix. Which is… something.”

Michael looked at her, really looked at her—the curve of her brow, the tired in her eyes, the way she always stood like she was expecting the worst but pretending she wasn’t. They were the same age, but sometimes she felt older.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Sure,” she replied too fast.

He nodded, didn’t push. Just let the silence stretch like a blanket between them.

“I hated how that apartment felt,” she said after a beat, softer now. “Too many memories crammed into too little space. Here at least… there’s air.”

“Yeah. Air and creepy taxidermy birds watching you sleep.”

Helena chuckled, and the sound was rare and real. She sat next to him, shoulder brushing his.

“Whatever happens here,” she said, “can we agree not to lose each other in it?”

Michael didn’t say anything right away. He just reached over, gently bumped her knee with his. “We won’t. Not unless you try to claim the stereo first.”

She smirked, eyes narrowing. “You wish you had taste.”

They sat there for a while longer—no music, no noise except the ocean in the distance and the faint call of gulls. Two tired teens in a strange new town, too old for what they lost, too young for what they were stepping into.

Neither knew what Santa Carla had waiting. But for now, they had their rooms. And each other.

And that was enough.