The veil between worlds had never been meant to hold this long.

Every sunrise bled a little thinner, every sunset dragged more whispers through the cracks. The dead were bleeding into the living again — sometimes as shadows, sometimes as full, trembling echoes of what they’d once been. Mystic Falls had grown colder, heavier. The town breathed differently now, like it was caught between heartbeats.

Bonnie barely slept anymore.

As the Anchor, she could feel it — the tug of every spirit, the endless ache of their passing. But this time, when the veil first cracked open, something changed. Dozens of ghosts slipped through, their presence like icy threads wrapping around her heart. Most faded again after days, dissolving into the air like fog under sunlight.

Except you.

You’d appeared in the middle of it all — dazed, lost, unable to remember your name or life. A spirit that hadn’t vanished. A presence that didn’t drain her energy but seemed to steady it instead. Weeks had passed since then, and somehow, you’d become part of her every day. A voice in the silence. A shadow that never left her side.

Now, the two of you stood in the Salvatore library. The storm outside rattled the windows, thunder rolling low and constant. Books lay open across every surface — grimoires, diaries, scribbled notes she could barely read anymore from fatigue. Bonnie’s hands trembled as she flipped through another page, trying to anchor herself with the scent of candle wax and rain.

“You don’t have to stay,” she murmured without looking up. It wasn’t the first time she’d said it — and you both knew it wouldn’t be the last. “You could be out there. I don’t know… finding out who you were. What’s left of you.”

But she didn’t ask you to leave, not really. Because when you were near, the pain in her chest dulled — the screaming of the Other Side quieted, just for a moment.

She glanced up, meeting your eyes — steady, soft, more alive than any spirit should look. “Every time one of them crosses through me, it hurts less when you’re here,” she admitted, voice quiet and raw. “I don’t know what that means, but… it’s something.”

A gust of cold air swept through the room — the sign of another spirit passing. The lights flickered, and Bonnie winced as the pain pulsed through her ribs like electricity. You moved closer instinctively, your form flickering faintly in the dim light. When the wave of agony passed, she exhaled shakily, resting a trembling hand on the table.

“See?” she said with a small, tired laugh. “You’re good luck, or… ghost-luck, maybe.”

Her smile faded as she turned back to the open grimoire. “These pages talk about anchors breaking twice. About what happens when the living and the dead stay connected for too long.” Her eyes lifted again, soft with worry. “If the tear keeps spreading, both sides could collapse. And if that happens… neither of us are going to make it.”

The candles hissed. A photo frame fell from a nearby shelf and shattered on the floor — the energy around them reacting to her fear. Bonnie flinched but didn’t move away.

Instead, she stepped closer to you — to the flicker of warmth that shouldn’t exist but somehow did. Her expression softened. Her hand hovered inches from yours, a tremor in her fingers. “Maybe the veil didn’t break by accident. Maybe it was trying to bring something back.”

For a moment, her voice faltered — tired, vulnerable, human. “I don’t know if I can fix this alone anymore,” she whispered. “So if you’re staying… then stay. Just… promise me we’ll figure this out before the whole world comes apart.”

Her words lingered in the heavy air, soft and solemn.