Whether you’ve been reading my stories for years or you’ve just found your way here, welcome to my cozy corner for all things books. 

I write under three different pen names, each one a reflection of a different kind of story I love to tell:

Lynette Ferreira – Sweet, sometimes strange, always emotional. These are YA love stories with a touch of the unexpected—bittersweet, gentle, and real. Read free first chapters to see if what I write is what you like to read.

Rosaline Saul – Paranormal romance and YA fantasy with magic, mystery, and soul-deep connections. For readers who believe love and destiny go hand in hand. Read free first chapters to try it out.

Stephen Simpson – YA horror with heart. These stories dig deep into fear, but always leave space for hope, friendship, and the strange beauty of the human experience. Read free first chapters - if you dare.

I'm excited for the future! There’s so much more to come.

With gratitude,
♥️ Lynette / Rosaline / Stephen 

Here in the half-light of a dying Irish afternoon, where the bog’s breath curled low and cold across the earth, I could almost hear my Dad’s voice carried on the wind. “Always look for the soil that doesn’t belong.” He would say it with a certain reverence, as if the earth were a living scripture waiting to be translated. I used to mimic him, crouching beside him with my too-big gloves and wide, eager eyes, imagining I could read the same hidden language. Now, I held his trowel in my hand, the grip worn smooth from years of use, and felt like I was carrying a ghost.

Three months. That’s how long it had been since the accident, but grief did not live in days or months; it lived in moments. In the silence between footsteps, in the things I almost said aloud before remembering there was no one left to answer. In the empty chair at dinner. In the battered field journal tucked under my coat, its pages still smelling faintly of peat and Dad’s pipe tobacco.

Around me, the excavation moved with a quiet, practiced rhythm. The squelch of boots in the thick peat. The soft click of brushes against ancient stone. Muffled voices trading observations over unearthed bones and fragments of pottery. I knelt alone at the edge of the trench, my gaze sweeping across the layered soil, searching for irregularities, for that subtle shift in colour or texture that signalled history was about to discovered. The bog was older than memory, older than myth. In the silence, it felt as though something unseen was watching, holding its breath with me.

A crow shrieked from the distant, skeletal treetops, and I flinched, the sudden sound jarring me from my reverie. I had no idea what I was truly looking for, only that he, my Dad, had been looking for it too. His quest had become my inheritance, a silent, weighty burden.

Then my fingers brushed against something. Not soil. Not root. Something smoother, firmer, slick beneath the layers of mud and compacted peat. My breath hitched, a sharp, cold gasp. I reached for my brush, its bristles soft with silt and damp earth, and swept gently. Slowly, meticulously, a pattern began to emerge. Lines were carved deep into the stone, spiralling inward like the vortex of a tidepool. It was familiar, ancient, unmistakably Celtic. But wrong, somehow. No, not wrong. Different. More… alive. Each curl in the design looped back on itself in delicate, impossible balance, a geometry that felt sacred, not merely etched into the stone but woven into the very fabric of time itself. I leaned closer, my heart thudding a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

“Orlagh?”

I jumped, startled. Dr. Murphy loomed above me, his glasses fogged from the cold, his waterproof raincoat spotted with damp earth. “You all right?” he asked, his gaze drifting from my face to the half-uncovered stone.

I nodded. My voice was caught somewhere between awe and disbelief. “I think I found something.”

He crouched beside me, adjusting his glasses with a practiced flick of the wrist. His eyes, magnified behind the thick lenses, narrowed as he studied the stone. Then, without a word, he raised a hand and waved the rest of the team over.

Boots approached quietly, crunching on the frozen ground. Breath plumed in the cooling air. Someone passed brushes. Gloves slipped onto fingers. Tarps were pulled taut to protect the exposure as others huddled close, their murmurs barely audible. The atmosphere of the dig shifted, as it always did when something truly important was uncovered. The air turned reverent, every motion becoming almost ceremonial.

The stone was no taller than my forearm, partially embedded in the earth, yet it dominated the trench. The carved spirals shimmered faintly beneath the remaining soil, like veins beneath skin, hinting at a hidden vitality.

“It’s not structural,” someone whispered, their voice hushed. “No integration with the cairn. Not even aligned with the cardinal points.”

“Deliberately placed,” another added, a note of wonder in their tone. “Possibly ritualistic.”

“It’s not from this period,” Dr. Murphy muttered, more to himself than to the group, his brow furrowed in concentration. “And yet…” He looked at me sideways, a glint of curiosity in his eyes. “You recognize the triskele, Orlagh?”

I nodded slowly while my gaze was still fixed on the intricate carvings. “But this isn’t Newgrange style. The angles are… off. More fluid, less rigid.”

“Very good,” he said, a rare note of genuine approval in his voice.

My heart ached at the compliment, a bittersweet pang. Dad used to say the same thing. “Very good, Orlagh. You’ve got the instincts.” He had always believed in my ability to see what others missed, to feel the pulse of the past beneath the earth.

I pressed a gloved hand gently against the spirals, letting my breath slow, trying to absorb the moment, to imprint it in my memory. The stone was warm. Not the false warmth of friction or residual sunlight, but something deeper, internal. As though it held its own quiet, ancient fire. Tears pricked behind my eyes, and I blinked them away, fiercely.

“You think it’s a keystone?” I asked quietly, my voice barely a whisper. “Or… an anchor?”

Dr. Murphy tilted his head, considering my words. “You’re thinking of your father’s theory, aren’t you?”

I almost smiled, a ghost of a smile that never quite reached my lips. “That there were sites where time thinned. Where relics weren’t just symbols. They were thresholds. Gateways.”

He gave a noncommittal shrug, a familiar gesture that always skirted the edge of belief. “Your father loved stories, Orlagh.”

“He loved truth disguised as stories,” I countered, a stubbornness in my tone that I knew I had inherited directly from Dad.

He did not reply, his gaze returning to the stone, his mind clearly sifting through possibilities. I remembered the late nights, Dad tracing spiral motifs in his well-worn journal, explaining their symbolism to me in the flickering glow of a camping lamp, his voice low and conspiratorial. “The spiral represents the journey of the soul,” he had said, his finger following the intricate curves. “Life, death, rebirth. A path inward… and out again. Like memory. Like fate.” His words, spoken years ago, now rang in my ears with the chilling clarity of prophecy.

I stared down at the carved lines, feeling something old and profound stir behind my ribcage. It was more than recognition; it was a visceral sense of déjà vu, written in stone, as if I had always known this place, this pattern, this moment.

The sun sank lower, a bruised purple on the horizon. Light bled a final, fading gold across the fields, casting the trench into long, skeletal shadows. Mist clung to the edges of the bog, rising like breath from the earth, obscuring the distant hills. Dr. Murphy finally called it. The others began packing up, their movements stiff with cold and fatigue. Tools were carefully stowed. Notes secured. Lanterns extinguished. Thermoses clutched between stiff fingers, their warmth a small comfort against the encroaching chill.

I stayed.

I stood, alone at the trench’s edge, watching the tarp flutter gently over the stone, a protective shroud against the gathering night. I did not want to leave. Not just because of the magnitude of the find, but because of the aching connection it stirred in me. For the first time in weeks, I felt like Dad was truly near, not just a distant memory. He would have knelt beside this stone with shining eyes, his face alight with discovery. He would have whispered to it like it could whisper back secrets older than time. Now, all I had was his voice echoing in memory, a constant refrain in the quiet corners of my mind. “History hides in plain sight, Orlagh. You just have to know how to look.”

CONTINUE READING

When eighteen-year-old Orlagh discovers a strange stone hidden beneath the earth, she awakens in another time…

Captured by royal soldiers and taken to Castle Caelthorn, Orlagh is caught between a cold, power-hungry prince and a haunted knight whose eyes stir something deep inside her. Dreams and flashes of a forgotten past begin to surface—memories of fire, betrayal… and a love that ended in blood.

This kingdom knows her face. Whispers call her cursed. The closer she gets to the truth, the more the lines blur between who she is and who she used to be.

Was she sent back to fix the past? Or repeat it?

A hauntingly romantic, time-swept story of soulmates, secrets, and fate.

CONTINUE READING

Ibiza’s nightlife was a perfect disguise. Well known for its nightlife and electronic dance music club scene in the summer, which attracted large numbers of tourists it thrummed with life, masked by flashing lights and drowned in bass that rattled bones.

Christopher stood behind a large, ultramodern DJ setup, his domain, glowing with LED lights and sleek dials. The crowd pulsed in sync with the beat, waiting for the next wave of music to wash over them. In the booth, the equipment glistened. Two turntables, a mixer, headphones, and his laptop with carefully curated tracks lined up for the night but this was not just about technicality; this was where his divine influence merged with his love for music.

He leaned in, one hand adjusting his headphones, the other scrolling through a playlist on his laptop. He was choosing the perfect reggaeton track, something heavy on the dembow beat. The genre’s signature rhythm that gave it its infectious, danceable groove. He was focused, but there was also a flicker of something else. An excitement that only he understood. His fingers hovered over the trackpad as he listened for the moment when the crowd’s energy synced with the rhythm in his headphones.

The deep, rolling dembow beat kicked in. It was steady and hypnotic, with a bass-heavy rhythm that at once ignited the dancefloor. Characterized by a syncopated kick and snare pattern, the dembow formed the backbone of every reggaeton track, a driving force that felt primal. The music pulsed through Christopher as if his heartbeat was linked to the beat itself.

The percussive elements—claves, snares, and electronic hi-hats—formed a cyclical rhythm that hit hard and fast, carrying the crowd in its wake. The layered synths and Latin melodies soared above it, creating that perfect fusion of Puerto Rican sound and modern club energy.

With one hand on the fader, Christopher masterfully transitioned from one track to the next. As the current song started to fade, he built anticipation by introducing a new, low-frequency beat underneath it. The crowd did not realize it yet, but they were already moving to the next track in their subconscious.

Christopher loved to mix in variations of reggaeton, infusing classic dembow rhythms with elements of EDM, Afrobeat, and trap, blending the old with the new. He carefully adjusted the tempo, ensuring a seamless flow, making sure the energy on the dancefloor never dipped.

He turned the filter knob, gradually stripping away the high frequencies of the outgoing track. The crowd sensed the change, and there was a brief moment of anticipation, of tension. Then, with a sharp twist of the crossfader, the new track burst through the speakers with full intensity, bringing the energy back to a peak. The crowd roared, and Christopher could not help but smile. He knew the exact buttons to press—literally and figuratively—to keep them hooked.

Using the mixer’s controls, he manipulated the beat to enhance the performance. He added stuttering effects, quick reverb hits, and smooth EQ transitions to highlight the beats and vocals that mattered most. Occasionally, he would use a loop, repeating a catchy section of a song to extend the crowd’s favourite moments. He built tension, playing with the beat, before dropping back into the chorus and letting the dancefloor explode with movement.

He lifted his hand off the deck, encouraging the crowd to clap in time with the beat, their hands rising and falling as if guided by invisible strings. The dembow rhythm took over again, and Christopher leaned into the flow, letting the music do the talking.

Beyond just playing music, Christopher watched the crowd. He sensed the ebb and flow of their energy, knowing instinctively when to slow things down and when to push for another peak. This was where his divine intuition came into play. The slight tilt of someone’s head, the movement of their hips, the glance between two strangers.

It was not just about the music; it was about connection. He could feel when love was sparking between two people, even before they realized it themselves. In these moments, he gently adjusted the music to heighten that sense of euphoria, amplifying the emotional ties being formed on the dancefloor.

One of the most electrifying moments of a DJ set was the drop, and reggaeton was full of moments that begged for a massive beat drop. Christopher rode the build-up with precision, layering percussion and synths until the tension was almost unbearable. Then, with a sharp flick of his wrist, he let the track explode into a heavy dembow drop, the bass booming through the speakers like a heartbeat. The crowd erupted, dancing harder, and Christopher knew then that he was in complete control of the room.

Christopher was not just a DJ. He was a performer. Between mixing tracks, he raised his hands to hype up the crowd, his charisma radiated throughout the venue. “Let’s go, Ibiza!” His voice was part of the energy, and his words flowed into the rhythm of the music.

As the music swelled, he grabbed the mic again, leaning in to shout, “Who’s ready to feel the love tonight?” The crowd screamed back, and for a moment, Christopher allowed himself to feel the rush, the connection with them. It was intoxicating, but fleeting. Just like everything else in his life.

To them, he was simply Chris, the island's hottest DJ, but beneath the perfect smile and smooth charm lay a truth far more ancient. He was Cupid, god of love and desire, forever bound to orchestrate connections for others while knowing he could never experience it himself.

Christopher’s fingers moved almost reflexively, layering melodies that stirred something deep within the crowd. With every beat, he felt the pull of hearts, the subtle shifts in emotion. His divine intuition could sense a spark between two strangers who had locked eyes across the room. In a matter of moments, a connection would ignite and there would be another pairing he had facilitated, unseen.

He lived for this. The thrill of aligning hearts, of guiding love to bloom where it would otherwise falter. It was all he had known for centuries but it was also his curse.

As the track reached its crescendo, Christopher allowed his eyes to drift toward the far corner of the club, where two people sat apart, stealing glances at each other, hearts on the verge of something more. He felt the familiar tug of duty pulling him in their direction. With a soft exhale, he adjusted the sound, blending tones that heightened the mood, pushing the pair closer together without them even realizing it. He felt the connection snap into place. Another match. Another love story set in motion.

And yet, as the energy surged through him, the emptiness inside grew deeper. He stepped back from the booth, letting his assistant take over, and retreated to the rooftop lounge. It was his escape from the constant reminder that the love he brought to others could never be his.

The moon hung low over the ocean, casting silver threads across the waves, but even this quiet beauty could not soothe the ache.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Through an ancient messaging system upgraded to modern convenience he was being summoned back to Olympus for a report.

He ignored it, choosing instead to let his thoughts unravel in the cool breeze.

For centuries, Christopher had avoided temptation. He had been careful, cautious, abiding by the rules that bound him. Gods could never fall in love with mortals. He was forbidden from feeling the very thing he spent his immortal life creating for others. The gods had warned him long ago of the dangers, of what happened when immortals coveted human desires, of how easily gods could lose themselves in the fleeting passions of mortals.

Was this all there was for him?

Pairing strangers, only to retreat to solitude as they embraced the joy he would never know?

He closed his eyes, letting the sea breeze wash over him, trying to remember the words of Aphrodite from long ago. She had warned him: “You are love’s servant, not its beneficiary.” At the time, he had accepted it without question. Now, though, those words haunted him.

A flash of laughter from below drew his attention. Another couple, giggling and twirling under the moonlight, lost in each other’s gaze. He could feel the intensity of their emotions, the heat of the passion that swirled between them. Christopher clenched his jaw, forcing himself to ignore the feelings he felt that could never be his. This was the life he had chosen. The life he was bound to.

A life without love.

His phone buzzed again, but this time, it was not Olympus. It was a message from Sam, his best friend and assistant. “Club’s packed. You gonna help or what?”

Christopher sighed, knowing his responsibilities called. He could not afford to dwell on his own desires. Not when there were hearts out there waiting to be nudged in the right direction.

As he walked back to the pulsating heart of the club, an unfamiliar feeling gnawed at him. A sense of longing. It was stronger than it had ever been before. Somewhere deep inside, a question began to take root.

What if—for once—he did not resist?

CONTINUE READING

In the pulsating heart of Ibiza's nightlife, Christopher, the island's most sought-after DJ, harbours a divine secret—he's actually Cupid, the immortal matchmaker. For centuries, he's used his powers to help others find love, cleverly disguising his arrows as heart-thumping beats and soul-stirring melodies. Despite his expertise in matters of the heart, Cupid has never experienced love himself, bound by ancient laws forbidding gods from romantic entanglements with mortals.

Enter Isabel, a young woman nursing a freshly broken heart. Fleeing a toxic relationship with a charismatic bad boy, she seeks solace in Ibiza's vibrant party scene. One fateful night, as the moon casts its silver glow upon the Mediterranean, Christopher and Isabel's paths cross on a secluded beach.

In that moment, both are struck by an unfamiliar sensation—genuine attraction. For the first time in his immortal existence, Christopher feels the spark of love igniting within him. Confused and exhilarated, he grapples with the foreign emotion, torn between his growing feelings for Isabel and the fear of divine retribution.

As their relationship deepens, Christopher must confront the ultimate dilemma: risk everything for a chance at true love or continue his lonely existence as the facilitator of others' happiness.

CONTINUE READING

Ezra blinked awake to soft sunlight slanting through the slats of his blinds, warm and golden across the mess of clothes on his bedroom floor. For a moment, the world was quiet. Peaceful, even. Dust motes danced lazily in the air, and the hum of a distant lawnmower buzzed faintly beneath the silence. He let out a slow breath, stretching, his limbs heavy with sleep.

His hand reached automatically for his phone on the nightstand.

There was a text from his mum reminding him about dinner at Aunt Gilly’s.

Nothing from Willow.

Odd.

He stared at the screen for a beat longer than usual. Willow was a morning person. By now she would have sent some ridiculous meme, or a photo of her cat mid-yawn with a caption like he understands my existential dread. Always something. A “good morning, loser” at the very least.

He scrolled through his messages, thumb flicking faster now, until he hit the top.

No ‘W’.

Frowning, he tapped into his contacts and typed her name.

Nothing.

His heart gave a small, sharp kick.

No. That could not be right.

He checked again. Willow Archer. Maybe he had accidentally deleted the contact. Maybe he had saved her under something stupid, like “Wills” or “Glitter Gremlin” or whatever nickname she had last allowed.

Every possible version turned up blank.

Still frowning, he opened his photo gallery. He started swiping through the months, all the way back to December, November, October. He was like a man chasing a dream that refused to stay still.

The photo of her in the blue dress. Gone.

The one from in front of the Titanic Museum at sunset, her hair haloed by the light like something out of a painting. Gone.

Their selfies at the movies. The blurry one from Halloween.

The photo he always came back to. The one of her in the rain, arms outstretched, eyes closed, like she belonged to another world.

Gone.

All of it.

His stomach twisted. Maybe… maybe it was a bug. Some update. Maybe his phone had rolled back to a backup point. He sat up, more sharply than he intended, and pulled open his cloud backups. His fingers moved on muscle memory: Google Photos. Drive. WhatsApp.

He typed her name in every field he could think of.

Still nothing.

He did not realise he had stopped breathing until his vision fuzzed slightly at the edges.

Had he deleted them by mistake? Last night when he had been half-asleep?

Or had he been hacked?

If that was the case… Why would someone erase just Willow?

And more than that. If she was not in his phone, was not in his cloud, not online, then where was she?

His heart was thudding now, quick and loud in his chest. He tried to reason through it. Maybe she had blocked him. Unfriended. Unfollowed. Even that did not explain the photos. They were his. She could not delete those. And why would she? They had not argued. Not seriously. Not in a way that would—

He rubbed his face, trying to remember the last thing she had said to him.

What was the last message? The last call?

It was there. Just on the edge of something, but when he reached for it, it slid out of focus. Like a word on the tip of his tongue.

He remembered her laugh. Loud, unrestrained, almost obnoxious.

He remembered the tiny scar on her chin from when she fell off her bike as a kid.

He remembered her crying during that ridiculous animated film because “the whale was too sad, Ezra!”

He remembered the feel of her hand in his. Her cool fingers always twitching, like she was on the verge of saying something important and never quite got the words out.

That was not a dream. You cannot dream up months of memories.

Could you?

He threw the covers off and stood, suddenly too hot. The floorboards creaked beneath his feet as he moved to the window, lifting the blind slightly to peer out.

The street looked normal. Quiet. Birds darted between the trees lining the pavement. Mr Peterson across the road was trimming his hedges with shears and humming something faintly tuneless.

It was too normal.

Ezra backed away from the window and sat on the edge of his bed, gripping his phone like it might offer answers if he held it tightly enough.

The dread was quiet. Not a scream but a whisper at the back of his mind, curling inwards like smoke. Something was wrong. He could feel it. In his bones, in the tiny prickling hairs on his arms. In the way silence stretched just a little too long between things.

He stood again and started pacing.

Think. Think.

He opened Instagram. Search bar. Willow Archer.

Nothing.

Facebook. Twitter. TikTok.

No user. No tags. No posts. No photos. No footprints.

It was like she had never existed.

But she had.

He knew it. In the same way he knew his own name. In the way his mouth still remembered the shape of hers.

He sat back down, slower this time. A creeping numbness started at the base of his spine. The kind that comes before cold sets in. His thumb hovered over her name in a draft message. He had typed it in out of habit.

The app prompted: This contact does not exist.

He stared at it. That single sentence. That deletion. Like reality had folded over a page and glued it shut.

He dropped the phone on the bed.

It bounced once, landing face-down.

His breathing had changed. It was quicker and shallower. He ran a hand through his hair, and his fingers caught in the curls. The silence around him felt heavier now, like the air itself had thickened.

She had been here. In this room. That hoodie in the corner, she had borrowed it after they got caught in the rain. That cushion. She had once launched it at him in mock fury because he said Pride and Prejudice was “kind of slow.” That mug on the desk. She used it for her terrible herbal tea.

And yet, there was no online proof that said: this girl existed.

He stumbled to the bathroom. His limbs felt leaden, and his chest felt tight.

The mirror above the sink greeted him with a version of himself he barely recognised. His pale skin was tinged slightly grey, his curly hair was wild and flattened on one side, his eyes were wide and rimmed with something that looked too much like fear. The silence here was deeper. Harsher. No street noise made it through the double glazing. No birdsong. Just the echo of his own breath bouncing off the tile.

He gripped the sides of the sink with both hands. Hard.

His fingertips had gone cold.

“Willow,” he said, his voice quiet, hoarse. He cleared his throat and tried again, louder this time. “Willow Archer.”

He watched his lips move in the mirror. It was as if they belonged to someone else.

“Seventeen. Went to King Arthur Grammar.” He swallowed. “Favourite film: Weathering for You. Favourite food: raspberry mochi. Laughed like a car stalling. Loved thunderstorms.”

Still no confirmation from the universe. Just his own reflection, staring back at him.

He hated the look in his eyes. They looked desperate, like the moment just after something dreadful happened. He tried to hold himself still, to breathe properly, but something beneath his skin was buzzing.

It was not just that she was gone. It was as if she had been peeled out of the world. Deliberately. Precisely. Without a trace.

He shook his head and turned on the tap. He leaned forward and splashed cold water over his face. It shocked him enough to pull his mind back from the brink, but only for a second. As he reached for a towel, he caught another glimpse of himself in the mirror.

Something, just for a second, looked wrong.

His reflection was a breath behind.

He blinked, heart lurching, but when he looked again, it was normal.

He gripped the sink harder, knuckles whitening.

Get it together.

This was probably some kind of mental break. Or a waking nightmare. Or… a hallucination brought on by stress. That was what people said, wasn’t it? When your brain overloaded, it filled in gaps with things that were not real. Willow was real, though. She had weight. Shape. Specifics. She was not a dream construct. She was not something invented by a tired brain.

She was someone.

He closed his eyes and tried again.

“Willow. You hated coconut. You used to tap your nails when you were bored, but only with your left hand. You refused to watch horror films because you said your dreams were already scary enough.”

A tremble started in his fingers and crawled up to his wrists. He was not cold. Not really. Although his body did not seem to know that.

He opened his eyes.

His reflection did the same.

“I'm not making you up,” he whispered.

What if he was?

No.

He could not accept that.

He forced himself to breathe slowly, evenly, counting seconds in and out like his parents had taught him for panic attacks. He was not sure this counted as one, but something was rising in him, hot and desperate, and he did not know where to put it.

The silence in the bathroom stretched long. It was usually comforting here. Predictable. Now it just felt wrong. Like something was missing. Like the whole world had a gap in it where Willow used to be.

He backed away from the sink, only half aware of what he was doing, and sat on the edge of the bath.

Maybe she was just gone. Moved away in the middle of the night. Maybe her family had to go into witness protection. Changed numbers. Deleted her socials. Ghosted him entirely. People did that. Sometimes without warning.

Even if that had happened, all those things should still be on his phone, though, but there was no trace of her.

He rubbed his arms, trying to shake off the chill. His mouth was dry.

This could not just be nothing. It was not normal.

He remembered reading something once, about early-onset dementia. How sometimes it started with things going missing. Memories slipping out of order. Entire people being forgotten. Was that what this was?

Was something wrong with him?

He would ask his parents, he thought suddenly. Maybe there was a family history no one had ever mentioned. Maybe this had happened before to someone else.

He stood, legs slightly shaky.

His reflection moved with him.

Normal now.

He turned away from the mirror and pressed his palm against the cool tile on the wall.

Focus.

CONTINUE READING

If she's a figment of his imagination… why does he remember her?

Ezra wakes to a world where Willow doesn’t exist. No photos. No texts. No name in his contacts. His parents, his friends—none of them remember her. It's like she’s been erased.

But he remembers her laugh. Her voice. The way she said his name like it mattered.

When Paige, a quiet classmate, confesses she remembers things that never happened, Ezra realizes this isn’t just memory loss—it’s something far more sinister.

The deeper they dig, the more reality unravels. Time is folding in on itself and the truth about Willow may be more horrifying than forgetting her ever was.

A chilling Young Adult horror about memory, identity, and the monsters we can’t see—until it’s too late.

CONTINUE READING