Page 1 of Broken Hearts

Prologue

Eva

How long would it take for the wound on my hand to bleed out? Bright blood beads and trickles in a slow rhythm, a stark red against my skin that pulses with each heavy beat of my heart.

My palm, slick with blood, leaves a distinct print on the silk of my dress—a rebellious scarlet against the pale rose—as I climb over the railing.

Beneath me, Memory’s River swirls in the night’s obscurity, its murky waters hidden yet audibly churning in the blackness. The river and I, we’re old acquaintances, its rapid currents whispering familiarly, mingling with the pulsating rhythm in my chest to create a strangely soothing symphony.

Memory’s River—a name dripping with irony for a waterway that has snatched away over twenty-one souls, transforming them into mere recollections in our town. This was our infamous suicide point, a place where people disintegrate into memories, obscured by ripples and forgotten by the stream.

I adjust my position on the bridge’s ledge, the rusty metal gnawing at the delicate skin of my feet.

Could I get Tetanus? My head dismisses the concern almost as quickly as it surfaces. The notion is laughably trivial when I’m teetering on the precipice of oblivion.

Taking a steadying breath, I shift forward, my hand now saturated with a fresh wave of blood. Numbness has stolen any semblance of pain, likely a product of severed nerves.

Warm trails of tears mark my cheeks, a silent testament to the despair gripping my heart, as I close my eyes tightly, willing my body to release its grip.

A whisper escapes, “I’m sorry, Dad,” as my fingers loosen their hold. The expected fall doesn’t come; instead, a viselike grip seizes my wrist, halting my descent.

“No, not tonight, sweetheart—not tonight.”

Chapter 1

Eva

Just over a year has passed since the stars saw my brush with death. Since a stranger’s hand snatched me from the abyss.

My nights have been clipped short for as long as I can remember, a habit etched into my bones, a remnant of a past life where the morning hours were filled with the rich, resonant sounds of my violin. Now, the silence of my room hangs heavy through the void where music used to live, a constant reminder of what I lost.

Nightmares often jolt me awake, leaving my skin cold and clammy. In these visions, no savior awaits—only the sharp sting of regret as I fall toward the icy water below. I banish the thought with a fierce shake of my head. Not today.

Silverbrook is supposed to be my chance to build a new life, one I had thought was all mapped out but now has to be rebuilt from scratch.

This school, this scholarship, is all I have left, and despite my worst mistake lurking in these halls, I won’t let it—or him—claim anything more from me. He has already stolen too much.

I stretch out my fingers, feeling the tightness in my knuckles easing with each flex. The pins and needles that some days are more persistent than others.

Giving up on sleep, I decide to quietly head to the kitchen to make breakfast. My two roommates are still sleeping. Poppy is an early riser too though, and even if I’m trying to be careful making myself some eggs, I know she will be out soon enough. As for Vanessa? I have no fear. No amount of noise can wake her when she sleeps.

Seated at the counter, I unfold my schedule. Packed almost to the point of being overextended, it’s a welcome distraction from a past that’s tethered to my heels. I trail my finger over the color-coded classes. I have colored them based on difficulty, credit, and potential impact on the major I will pick later.

Poppy’s door creaks open midway through my meal. She emerges, her hair a wild tangle of brown curls. “Morning, early bird,” she mumbles, rubbing her eyes.

“Morning,” I reply, trying to keep my tone light despite the serious subject that is clouding my thoughts.

She wraps her hands around her coffee cup, her stomach growling loud enough to echo off the kitchen walls. The sound is an unexpected interruption to our quiet morning. She blushes, and I once again realize that being as thin as she is, is probably not by choice.

I open the oven and take out a plate, the contents of bacon and eggs still warm. “It’s one of those days when I wake up early and can’t go back to sleep, so I made breakfast for all of us.” The smell of the food fills the kitchen, and I place the plate in front of Poppy. “Here you go.”

Her eyes linger on the plate, a hungry gleam flashing briefly before she shakes her head. “Oh no, I didn’t pay for my share of the food this week. I didn’t put any money in the food jar.”

Shaking my head, I offer a warm smile. “And? We’re a team, Poppy, all three of us.”

There’s a genuine sense of camaraderie in the simple act of sharing a meal. It’s moments like these that make me grateful for the friends who have become like family in my new life at Silverbrook.

She sits beside me and leans in to look at my schedule, letting out a low whistle. “That’s a lot of classes.” She takes a mouthful of eggs, and I can’t help but smile, feeling some of the remaining darkness vanishing at the view.

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