Chapter 3

The days after the news of the city's fall felt like the slow unraveling of a carefully woven thread. What had once been a life of routine-simple, quiet-was now tainted with fear. In Willow Glen, it started small: whispered conversations in the marketplace, nervous glances exchanged between neighbors, the feeling that they were being watched, even in their most private moments.

At the Fayden house, that fear was palpable.

Aeliana stood in the pantry, stacking cans of food onto shelves that were beginning to overflow. The once sparse storage room had now become a fortress of supplies, a reflection of her father's growing obsession with preparation. She hadn't questioned it at first. After all, it made sense to stock up. But lately, it seemed like everything in their lives had become about hoarding, fortifying, preparing for the inevitable.

Her father, Marcus, had made countless trips to Denny's General Store, returning with bags of dried goods, water jugs, and tools. When he wasn't out gathering supplies, he was hammering away at the fence or reinforcing the doors and windows. The house, which had once felt like a home, now resembled a bunker-a place of refuge in a world that had yet to fall apart, but would.

"Pass me those nails," Marcus grunted, his voice coming from the doorway.

Aeliana turned, handing him a box of nails without a word. His hands were calloused, dirt embedded deep into the lines of his fingers. He'd been working non-stop since the news hit, as though his frenzied activity might somehow keep the aliens at bay.

"Have you eaten today?" she asked, watching as he knelt to hammer in another wooden plank over the kitchen window.

He shook his head, barely acknowledging the question. "Don't worry about me. We've got to get this done."

Aeliana sighed but didn't push him further. Her father had always been a man of few words, but lately, it felt like he was disappearing into himself. Since the invasion began, since they learned her older brother John had joined the resistance, Marcus had become a shadow of the man he once was. The loss of John-the uncertainty of whether he was even still alive-had driven a wedge between him and the rest of the family. It was as though Marcus couldn't stop preparing for the worst because he feared the worst had already happened.

Her mother, Lydia, walked into the room, her arms full of canned beans. She glanced at Marcus, her lips pressed into a thin line as she watched him work. The tension between them had grown, too, the cracks in their relationship widening as the invasion crept closer.

"You should take a break," Lydia said, but there was no softness in her voice. It was more of an order than a suggestion.

"I'll take a break when the house is secure," Marcus replied, his tone clipped.

They didn't fight outright-not yet-but the strain was evident in every interaction. Small arguments over nothing, like whether the shutters should be reinforced or how much food they really needed, had become commonplace. And beneath it all, the unspoken grief for John lingered, festering like a wound that refused to heal.

Aeliana glanced at Tara, who was sitting at the kitchen table, her head bent over a textbook she wasn't reading. She had been trying to distract herself with schoolwork, but it was clear her mind was elsewhere.

"Have you heard anything?" Tara asked suddenly, her voice cutting through the silence. "About John?"

The question hung in the air, heavy and painful. They hadn't heard from John in weeks. When he left to join the resistance, he had promised to write, to keep in touch, but as the alien forces spread across the country, communication had become scarce. The few letters they had received from him were now wrinkled and worn from constant reading, offering little more than vague reassurances that he was fine, that he was fighting. But that had been months ago.

"No," Marcus said, his back still turned as he hammered another nail into the wood. "But he's out there, fighting for us. For all of us."

It was the same response he always gave, a statement meant to reassure, but it did little to ease the gnawing sense of loss that had taken root in their home. Aeliana knew her father clung to the belief that John was alive, that he was out there somewhere, resisting the invaders. But as the days passed, that belief felt more and more like a desperate hope, fragile and frail.

Tara let out a soft sigh, dropping her pencil onto the table. She was fifteen, but the weight of the world seemed to have aged her. Aeliana could see it in the way Tara hunched her shoulders, the way she constantly picked at the edge of her notebook as if she could peel away the fear hiding beneath the surface.

"What if they come here?" Tara asked quietly, her eyes darting to the windows, now covered in wooden planks. "What are we going to do?"

Aeliana didn't know how to answer. She glanced at her mother, hoping Lydia might step in with some comforting words, but her mother was silent, her face tight with worry.

"They won't come," Marcus said gruffly, though the conviction in his voice had faded since the last time he said those words. "We're too small. They're focused on the bigger cities."

Aeliana wasn't so sure. They had already heard rumors of alien ships spotted nearby, scout vessels drifting through the skies just a few towns over. The invaders weren't just occupying large cities anymore; they were spreading, searching for something-or someone.

Sometimes, at night, Aeliana would stand outside and stare up at the sky, her heart pounding as she scanned the stars for any sign of movement. She had seen it only once-a glimpse of alien tech high above, moving too fast and too smooth to be anything man-made. The sleek, dark shape had glided through the atmosphere, and for a moment, she had felt as if the world itself was watching her.

"What do you think they want?" she asked, breaking the tense silence that had settled over the room.

Her father stopped hammering and turned to face her, his expression hard. "Does it matter? They're taking everything."

Aeliana frowned. "But why? What's the point of destroying entire cities? Taking people? What are they doing with them?"

Her mother, who had been quietly sorting cans, suddenly froze. The room seemed to still as Lydia spoke, her voice low and strained. "We don't ask those questions, Aeliana. It's best not to."

The dismissal stung, but it wasn't surprising. Her parents never wanted to talk about the deeper implications of the invasion. It was as if asking the wrong questions could summon the invaders to their doorstep.

But Aeliana couldn't stop wondering. What did they want? What happened to the people they took? Rumors varied-from forced labor camps to mass exterminations-but no one knew for sure. The only certainty was that those taken by the aliens never returned.

The fear of the unknown gnawed at her. Every time she thought of John, her mind conjured images of him in chains, trapped on one of their ships or, worse, dead. And as much as she tried to push those thoughts away, they always came back.

That night, the wind howled outside, rattling the wooden shutters her father had so meticulously reinforced. Aeliana lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, her thoughts a tangled mess of fear and frustration. Her family was coming apart at the seams. John's absence had left a hole they couldn't fill, and as much as they tried to pretend they were holding things together, the cracks were beginning to show.

She turned onto her side, her eyes drifting to the window. The boards covered most of the glass, but there was still a sliver where the sky peeked through. For a long moment, she watched the dark expanse, waiting for some sign that everything was going to be okay. But there was no comfort to be found in the stars tonight-only a vast, indifferent sky and the knowledge that something far worse was out there, drawing ever closer.

And soon, it would reach them.