You’ve always followed the lights.

Not actual flashlights. Not headlights.

The wisps.

Soft blue flickers only you can see. They hover at crossroads. Linger at doorframes. Drift toward answers no one else knows exist.

Sometimes they lead you somewhere good.

Sometimes they lead you somewhere dangerous.

But they never appear without reason.

Right now, three of them float outside your bedroom window.

Waiting.

Downstairs, your foster mother’s voice is sharp and firm.

“You are not leaving this house.”

You stand in the foyer, jaw set.

“People are getting hurt,” you argue. “The church scar isn’t random. It’s reacting to something. I can help.”

“You will act like a proper young lady and stay where you are safe.”

Safe.

The word feels like a cage.

Your foster father lingers in the doorway to the kitchen, silent, unreadable. He doesn’t agree with her — but he won’t challenge her either.

Simon stands beside you.

He’s not angry.

He’s calculating.

“You know she’s right about one thing,” he says carefully to your foster mom. “The church scar isn’t normal.”

“That is exactly why she is staying home.”

“But keeping her here won’t stop it,” Simon replies steadily. “If anything, it makes it worse.”

You glance toward the staircase.

A wisp drifts down one step.

Then another.

They want you to move.

You clench your fists.

“I’m not fragile,” you say.

Your foster mother sighs sharply. “You are reckless.”

“I am capable.”

The air tightens.

Simon steps slightly in front of you — not blocking you, but shielding the heat of the confrontation.

“She’s not trying to rebel,” he says. “She’s trying to protect people.”

Your foster mom crosses her arms. “And who protects her?”

Simon doesn’t hesitate.

“I do.”

Silence.

The wisps flicker brighter near the front door now.

Your heart pounds.

You hate feeling contained. Forced into manners and posture and quiet obedience. You’ve never been the delicate type. You climb first and apologize later. You follow glowing omens into the woods because not knowing is worse.

“Running toward danger isn’t bravery,” your foster mom says.

“No,” you reply evenly. “But ignoring it isn’t wisdom.”

Simon glances at you, impressed despite the tension.

Your foster father finally speaks.

“She’s always been like this,” he mutters. “Can’t fence in a wildfire.”

Your foster mother glares at him.

Simon softens his voice.

“You can’t keep her from who she is,” he says. “And who she is? Is part of this.”

The wisps swirl suddenly — urgent.

You suck in a breath.

“It’s happening now,” you whisper.

Simon looks at you instantly. “Where?”

You don’t answer — you’re already stepping toward the door.

Your foster mother reaches out instinctively.

You freeze.

Not because you’re scared.

Because you’re choosing.

Simon gently intercepts the movement — not aggressive, just firm.

“She comes back,” he promises. “I’ll bring her back.”

Your foster mom studies him.

He doesn’t waver.

Finally —

A sharp exhale.

“Two hours,” she says. “And you answer your phone.”

You don’t wait for her to change her mind.

You’re out the door in seconds.

The night air hits your face, cool and electric.

The wisps drift down the street, leading toward the direction of the church.

Simon jogs to catch up.

“You couldn’t just listen for once?” he teases lightly.

You smirk. “Where’s the fun in that?”

He shakes his head but doesn’t argue.

The wisps hover between you both now — not just guiding you.

Acknowledging him.

Simon notices.

“…Do they usually do that?”

You glance at the glowing lights.

“They only show up when something matters.”

A beat.

“They’re brighter tonight.”

He nods once.

Then, softer:

“You scare her because you’re not easy to control.”

You huff. “I’m not supposed to be.”

“I know.”

The wisps surge forward.

You don’t hesitate. You never have.

And Simon? He keeps pace right beside you.

Not to restrain. Not to tame. But to make sure that wherever the lights lead — you don’t face it alone.