the night Emily Carter was supposed to die, the clocks on Hawthorne Avenue stopped ticking.
Not all of them—just the ones close enough to hear her heartbeat slow, to feel the moment when fate hesitated. Rain fell in thin silver lines, the streetlights flickered, and somewhere in the dark, something ancient opened its eyes.
Emily never noticed any of this.
She was too busy walking toward her end.
Twenty-two years old. College finished. Life ahead. Thoughts tangled with rent, jobs, expectations. She stepped off the curb without looking up, unaware that a car was racing toward her far too fast, its headlights cutting through the rain like blades.
Later, people would say she was lucky.
But luck had nothing to do with it.
Time broke instead.
A cold force wrapped around her waist. The world tilted. The sound of the car screamed past where she had been standing, close enough to steal her breath. When her feet touched the ground again, her heart was still beating—but it felt borrowed.
She looked up.
The man holding her was pale—unnaturally so—his skin white like moonlight carved into flesh. His eyes were a soft silver-gray, calm and distant, as if he had seen moments like this a thousand times before. He didn’t look scared. He didn’t even look surprised.
“You’re safe,” he said.
His voice was low. Old. Gentle in a way that felt wrong for someone so young.
Before Emily could speak, before she could thank him, before she could even blink—he was gone.
Not walking away.
Gone.
She stood alone in the rain, shaking, with the strange certainty that something impossible had just saved her life.
She would see him again.
At first, it felt like coincidence.
A week later, when a drunk stranger followed her down an empty street, fear crawling up her spine, she noticed a figure standing at the far end of the alley. Pale. Still. Watching. The stranger turned, took one look at the man’s eyes, and ran.
Another night, hiking near Multnomah Falls, the rocks slick with moss, Emily slipped. The ground vanished beneath her feet. Strong hands caught her mid-fall, fingers digging into her jacket with impossible strength.
Him again.
Always him.
He appeared in moments where death leaned too close. A fire in her apartment building. A collapsing stair rail. A shadowed parking garage where footsteps echoed behind her.
He never arrived late.
He never arrived early.
And he never stayed.
She finally stopped pretending it was chance when she caught him watching her through a café window.
“Who are you?” she asked, heart pounding.
“Adrian,” he replied.
That was all he gave her at first.
He never ate. Never drank. His coffee stayed untouched. His reflection in glass was faint, distorted, as if mirrors struggled to remember him. His skin was always cold—even in summer.
And yet, Emily wasn’t afraid.
The truth revealed itself on an ordinary night—because horrors often do.
She was cooking. The knife slipped. A thin red line bloomed across her finger. Just one drop of blood fell.
Adrian froze.
His body went rigid, breath hitching sharply. His eyes darkened—not with anger, but hunger. Raw. Violent. Ancient. For a split second, she saw the thing behind the man.
“I need to leave,” he whispered, voice cracking.
“No,” she said softly. “Tell me.”
The silence that followed felt heavier than any scream.
“I’m a vampire.”
The word should have shattered her.
Instead, she saw fear in his eyes—not of her, but of himself.
He told her everything. About centuries passing like seasons. About watching everyone he ever loved age, weaken, and die. About the hunger that never left, no matter how much blood he drank. About the rules he lived by so he wouldn’t become a monster.
One night, the hunger nearly won.
They stood too close. Her pulse thundered in his ears. His fangs brushed her neck.
Then he stopped.
Adrian stumbled back like he’d touched fire, collapsing to his knees, hands shaking.
“I would rather suffer forever,” he said, tears falling freely, “than hurt you.”
That was the moment Emily fell in love.
They never married. Adrian refused to trap her in a future where she would grow old beside someone frozen in time. Emily refused to leave him.
So they chose something quieter.
Years passed. Road trips. Shared sunsets. Laughter in small apartments. Love without promises of forever—but with complete devotion.
Then time came to collect its debt.
Emily aged.
Her hair silvered. Wrinkles traced her smiles. Her hands trembled. Adrian remained unchanged. Strangers assumed he was her son. Then her grandson.
It broke him in ways immortality never had.
On her final night, Emily lay in bed, fragile but peaceful. Adrian knelt beside her, holding her hand like it was made of glass.
“I lived a full life,” she whispered. “Because you loved me.”
She smiled softly. “Please… drink my blood.”
“No,” he sobbed. “I can’t.”
“I want to stay,” she said. “Even if it’s only inside you.”
With a heart shattered beyond repair, Adrian did as she asked.
Emily Carter died without fear.
And somewhere, the clocks on Hawthorne Avenue began ticking again.
