I was already uneasy before the door opened and my real troubles began.

The wind swept my white hair around my face as a woman in a cheerful yellow dress held open the door of Blue Sky Teas for her sullen teenage daughter. The gust carried in a faint scent of pinecones and charred wood.

The summer solstice would be here within a week, which the temperature reflected, but I’d woken up at dawn this morning to the howls of a fierce wind wreaking havoc on my backyard garden. It looked as if a giant from a fairy tale had trampled the summer squash, strangled the Persian Cucumber vines, and kicked the Blue Jay Blueberry bushes to see how far the unripe berries would scatter. Still, my anguish wasn’t from the damage. It was because of how much I cherished my garden sanctuary, Portland, and the people I’d come to love here. Yet with every passing season, it grew closer to the time I knew I’d have to leave.

The harsh breeze from the open door followed the pair inside and disturbed the leaves of the weeping fig tree rooted in the center of the café. The owner, Blue, had saved the tree when she opened the café. I couldn’t imagine Blue Sky Teas without its living tree centerpiece. I hoped the wind wouldn’t last long. All varieties of Ficus detest being disturbed.

I tucked the largest offending lock of hair behind my ear as Heather set a pot of tea on our tree ring table nestled next to one of the front windows. The two braids of her blond hair were pinned into a loose bun. I’d become friends with her teenage son Brixton a year and a half ago when he’d broken into my house on a dare and worked off the expense of the broken window by tending to my garden.

“Blue says to let this steep for three more minutes before pouring.” Heather grinned at me. “It’s an herbal blend that’s supposed to cheer you up.”

“I’m sure it will.” I grinned back at her. She’d sensed my growing melancholy as the season shifted from spring to summer.

“Should we set a timer? You know I’m the worst at keeping time. Did I tell you I painted until after midnight last night? I thought it was nine o’clock at the latest.”

I didn’t see whether Heather set a timer on her phone or not. Something else had drawn my attention away from our cozy table.

The sulky teenage girl didn’t get in line with the older woman. I no longer thought the woman in the yellow dress was her mother. Not because of a lack of resemblance, which wouldn’t have told me anything about their relationship regardless, but because there was no familiarity. Not even a sign of recognition. They’d parted ways as soon as they stepped through the door. The older woman had simply extended a small kindness by holding open the door for a stranger.

I didn’t worry about a teenager being at the café unaccompanied. I’d left home at sixteen, along with my fourteen-year-old brother. No, that wasn’t my worry or what had drawn my curiosity. There was something off about the girl. What I’d initially observed as sullenness wasn’t exactly that. She wasn’t simply a petulant teenager.

She was afraid.

And her movements… As she’d walked through the door, she’d swept in gracefully, almost floating, like the steps of a dancer. But as soon as she crossed the threshold, her gait transformed. Her steps became halting. It wasn’t that she’d tripped. Nothing hindered her path. It was almost like I was watching a movie that had thrown a glitch.

Dressed in leggings and an oversize flannel shirt I remembered so many young people wearing a couple of decades ago when grunge was at its peak, she took another two halting steps before stopping in front of the weeping fig tree. Its branches stretched up to the faux sky ceiling. Now that she was closer to me, I realized where the scent of charred pine had come from. Rosemary. A sprig of flowering rosemary was tucked into the pocket of the flannel shirt. Long bangs of light brown hair covered much of her face, so I still couldn’t see her clearly. But as she tilted her head upward toward the top of the tree, her bangs parted, revealing more of her face. Her lips didn’t smile, but her eyes did. That’s when I saw it.

Her eyes were gold.

Not a natural hazel that sparkled with flecks of gold, like the distinctive eyes of my dear friend Tobias. But truly gold.

“Earth to Zoe?” Heather’s voice startled me. “I think you didn’t get a good night’s sleep last night either. Let me guess. Is Max back?”

I turned my attention to Heather as she lifted the teapot over our mismatched handcrafted ceramic mugs.

“Max isn’t back.” I missed him terribly, even though he was only a couple of hours’ drive away from Portland in Astoria, gathering a few more items for the opening of his shop, The Alchemy of Tea. I planned to see him later that day. The thought excited me, but also filled me with a sense of trepidation. It frightened me to think about how much I’d come to love Max, as well as so many dear friends here—when I knew, deep down, that no matter what choices I made, I could never stay and grow old here.

“Then you have no excuse,” Heather giggled.

“I slept fine until I discovered this wind’s destruction to my garden. That’s not why I wasn’t paying attention. I was distracted by the teenage girl who’s standing in front of the tree.” The café was bustling enough that I only had to lower my voice a little to be certain we wouldn’t be overheard.

Heather turned her head. She froze. A pained expression washed over her face. The teapot slipped from her fingers. The pot clattered as it crashed into her mug, sending shards of earthenware across the table. Hot tea splashed over the side.

Several heads turned our way—including the girl’s.

Only… it wasn’t a natural motion. The other customers had reacted quickly, as soon as the crash sounded. One of them rushed forward with a handful of napkins as Blue stepped out from behind the counter with a larger towel and assured Heather it was nothing to worry about and she’d fix us another pot of tea.

As the scene unfolded, the girl who had unknowingly caused it stood still. Her entire body remained rigid, standing at that awkward angle—except for her head, which turned in excruciatingly slow motion to look at us. Her gaze only reached us when Blue did.

“Riddle?” Heather whispered.

The girl couldn’t have heard her, but as soon as Heather spoke, the strange young woman swept gracefully toward the exit, following two men out the door. Three leaves from the weeping fig tree fluttered to the floor. One of them was so dry it looked like a brittle scrap of paper. I’d examine the tree’s health later. For now, Heather needed my full attention.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“I know her.” Heather’s voice shook.

“One of Brixton’s school friends?” Blue wiped up the last of the spilled liquid and stood. Her mom jeans were wet at the knees with cinnamon ginger tea, but she wore a smile on her face as usual. “I didn’t recognize her. Don’t think she’s been in here before. Damn. You think she couldn’t afford to buy anything? I should go after her—”

“You won’t find her.” Heather’s eyes were wide. Frightened. More frightened than the look I’d seen on the girl’s face.

“What’s going on?” I asked. I was missing something. Something big.

Heather gripped a shard of her broken mug so tightly that a spot of blood appeared on her hand. She didn’t seem to notice.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” she whispered.

“You don’t really think—?”

“There’s no such thing as ghosts.” Blue spoke the words forcefully enough to cut me off. Her voice was friendly, yet with the authority in each word, there was no question who was in charge. I imagined her in a courtroom in her previous life before she began anew here in Portland. Gray curls framed her friendly face, which still wore a smile.

Though I agreed with Blue, I knew why Heather had asked. The young woman’s awkward movements had struck me like I was watching a film with a glitch in the recording. The other-worldly eyes. And something else I couldn’t quite place…

“You’re wrong.” Heather’s voice shook. “She’s—”

“I’m putting an end to this.” Blue was already at the door. “I’ll find her. Back in a minute.”

“Blue’s right.” I put my hand on Heather’s to assure her. “That girl is the right age to be in high school with Brixton. You can’t place her even though you’re sure you know her, which is always a jarring feeling.”

Heather yanked her hand away. “She’s not one of Brix’s friends. I know exactly who she is. I’m the one who went to high school with her. Ridley Price. She was my best friend—until she was murdered sixteen years ago.”