SILVERWOOD: Ashes & Alpha

The smell of stale beer and cigarette ash clung to everything in the trailer like a second skin. No matter how wide I cracked the windows, it always crept back in, seeping into my clothes, my hair, my bones.

Some girls woke up to the scent of fresh coffee and their mom humming over the stove. I woke up to the rattle of empty bottles rolling across the linoleum and my dad’s snores, guttural and uneven, spilling from the sagging couch.

I tugged my hoodie tighter and crouched to press the duct tape back over the corner of the carpet. It had been peeling for weeks. Not that anyone else cared. The whole place was falling apart, just like the man passed out in the living room.

“I’m off,” I called, though I knew he wouldn’t stir. Whether he heard me or not didn’t matter. He wouldn’t remember.

I grabbed my backpack and stepped outside. The air was sharp, biting at my cheeks, but at least it didn’t smell like rot and regret. My bike waited by the steps; the chain squeaked, the tires sagged, but it was all I had to get me where I needed to go.

Three jobs, three uniforms, three different masks I wore just to keep the lights on and the fridge from echoing with nothing.

I swung onto the bike, legs already heavy from yesterday’s shifts. The diner opened in fifteen minutes, and I couldn’t afford to be late again. If I lost this job, the others wouldn’t be enough. And then what?

The thought chased me down the cracked pavement as I pedaled hard, my breath fogging the early morning air. I kept my head down, my ponytail whipping against my shoulders, pretending not to notice the looks from the people I passed.

Around here, everyone knew me. Trailer trash. The girl with a drunk for a dad and a busted bike for a car.

The diner bell chimed as I pushed through the door. Victor was already moving between tables, his rag swiping lazy circles across the Formica.

“Right on time, baby girl,” he called, flashing me a wink.

I managed a tired smile and pulled my apron over my hoodie. “Where’s Peter?”

Victor snorted, tossing the rag onto his shoulder. “Haven’t seen him. Probably face-down somewhere with a bottle. Same as always.”

I shouldn’t have asked. Peter owned the diner in name only. He showed up once or twice a week, collected the till, and drank the profits dry. In a lot of ways, he wasn’t much different from my dad, except Peter had a business to neglect, and my father only had me.

“Figures,” I muttered, grabbing a cloth to wipe down the nearest booth.

The hours dragged, filled with the clatter of plates and the hiss of the old coffee machine. By the time my shift ended, the smell of grease clung to my skin and my feet ached in shoes that had lost their cushion months ago.

I yanked my hair tighter into a ponytail as I traded one apron for another, this one a faded navy that reeked faintly of diesel and burnt coffee.

The gas station was my second stop of the day, and if I wanted to keep the lights on in the trailer, there was no skipping it.

By the time I clocked in, the weight of exhaustion pressed down on me like a second uniform. My eyes burned, my body begged for sleep, but I kept moving. That’s what I did, kept moving.

Normal girls my age worried about homework and boy drama. I worried about whether my bike chain would snap on the way home, or if my dad would remember to pay the electricity bill with the scraps of cash I left him.

Exhaustion wasn’t just in my bones anymore. It was a part of me, like a shadow I couldn’t shake.

The regulars at the gas station barely saw me. To them, I was just the girl behind the counter, “sweetheart” if they felt generous, or something uglier if they didn’t.

I rang up cigarettes, energy drinks, and scratch-off tickets. I kept a polite smile fixed in place, even when men let their eyes linger too long, even when their voices dipped into tones that made my skin crawl.

By noon, my cheeks hurt from pretending, but I’d learned long ago that smiling was safer than snapping.

When the clock finally hit three, I slipped out the back door, untied the apron, and shoved it into my backpack.

My sneakers were already scuffed from years of use, but they carried me back onto my bike and toward my third shift.

The old motel on Route 9 always reeked of mildew, stale smoke, and sweat. The carpet was threadbare, the walls stained with watermarks, and the sheets, well, I never let myself think too hard about the stains I scrubbed out.

At nineteen, I should’ve been in a classroom, worrying about finals or prom or whatever else girls my age cared about. Instead, I was scrubbing someone else’s mess on my knees with bleach stinging the cracks in my hands.

I kept my head down, moving quickly. Slow, and my supervisor would dock my pay. Miss a spot, and he’d find a reason to remind me I was replaceable.

Some nights, when my body screamed for rest and my hands shook from fatigue, I’d whisper to myself that this was temporary. That one day, I’d claw my way out of the life stamped on me from birth.

Trailer trash. The words had followed me since I was little, hissed by classmates, muttered by strangers, spit at me in anger.

People wore it like armor against me, as if reminding me of where I belonged would keep me there, but I didn’t want to belong here. Not in this trailer, not in this town, not in this version of my life.

By the time I stumbled back into the trailer that night, my sneakers were damp with mop water and my shirt clung to my skin. Every step felt like it dragged through quicksand.

Sometimes, in the quiet moments like this, I let myself wish I had a mom. Dad said she’d left when I was born, ran off with some rich man and never looked back.

His favorite story to tell when the whiskey hit hard enough. He always added that he’d been forced to raise me alone, as if I were a punishment he’d never deserved. Maybe that was why the resentment in his eyes never softened.

The trailer was silent. Dad was probably at some bar, swapping stories for shots. I opened the fridge. Empty shelves stared back at me, except for a carton of milk two weeks expired and half a bag of frozen peas.

I pulled out a cup of instant noodles, zapped it in the microwave, and sat at the wobbly kitchen table.

The hum of the machine was the only sound. I kept my eyes on the steam curling out of the Styrofoam cup and tried not to think about how much I hated this life, how heavy it felt to wear someone else’s failure like it was my skin.

That’s when I saw it. A letter.

Not a bill. Not a court notice. An envelope, thick, heavy, stamped with a crest I didn’t recognize. My name was written across the front in neat, careful script: Riley Walker.

For a moment I just stared, half afraid it would vanish if I blinked. My fingers shook as I tore it open, the paper whispering in the silence.

The words blurred together at first. Formal lines, phrases I didn’t register. Until one sentence hit me like a punch.

We are pleased to inform you that you have been awarded a full scholarship to Silverwood Academy.

My throat closed. Silverwood Academy. An Academy for shifters and humans.

I’d heard of it. Everyone had. A school for the elite, the children of the rich, the powerful, the shifters who ruled from the shadows.

It wasn’t a place kids like me even dreamed of stepping into, and ye, the letter in my hand said otherwise.

It couldn’t be real. Why me? I hadn’t applied, hadn’t even thought about it, but the paper was solid in my trembling hands.

For the first time in years, something cracked open in my chest. A spark.

Hope. Bright. Dangerous. Terrifying.