Chapter Text
“So… how was the flight?”
Her father’s voice pulled her out of her thoughts and instinctively made her roll her eyes.
“Fine, I guess,” replied the pigtail-wearing girl as she drew shapes on the fogged-up window of her father’s car.
It had been an hour since her flight landed. She had assumed she’d take a taxi to her father’s house, so it was definitely a surprise to see the man she’s supposed to call “Dad” standing at the bottom of the escalator with a ridiculous sign that read, “Welcome home, sweetheart.”
So now she was here, trapped in a police cruiser with awful heating next to the most despicable man she’d ever known.
“Want me to turn up the heat?” Spirit asked, breaking the silence while fiddling with the knob in a distracted gesture. “Don’t want you to freeze.”
She drew another circle in the foggy glass, without looking at him.
“No, it’s fine,” she replied curtly.
“Ah! Great,” he said with obvious discomfort. “So tell me, Maka. How was the flight?”
“You already asked that, Dad.” She finally turned to face him, though Spirit wished she hadn’t, because her gaze was doing nothing but judging him.
“Oh… right.” He scratched his neck awkwardly, smiling nervously. “It’s just… I didn’t know what else to ask you.”
Maka settled back into her seat, crossing her arms.
“You could say nothing,” she muttered. “That would be a good start.”
Silence returned between them like an awkward third passenger in the car. Spirit drummed his fingers on the steering wheel with a jittery rhythm, while Maka mentally counted the seconds until they arrived.
Home.
A roof that didn’t feel like hers.
A room she hadn’t asked for.
A reunion she never wanted.
“I fixed up your room,” he said, trying to sound enthusiastic. “I put your books on the shelf the way you liked and found that green sunflower quilt you used to love…”
“Thanks, you didn’t have to go to the trouble,” she replied simply. “Though I brought my own books and quilts—you know, ones suited for a seventeen-year-old, not a five-year-old.”
“Yeah, I uh…” he tried to excuse himself, “I’m sorry about that. The truth is, Maka, I meant to buy you more age-appropriate stuff, but I kinda spent my whole paycheck on your gift.”
“My gift?” Maka asked, raising an eyebrow.
Spirit smiled with a proud glint in his eyes, as if he’d been waiting all day for that moment.
“A truck!” he exclaimed, turning onto a tree-lined residential street. “It’s not new or anything, but it’s in good shape! An old coworker of mine used to drive it! And I thought, ‘Hey, Spirit, what better way to start fresh with your daughter than to give her a bit of motorized freedom!’”
Maka looked at him, somewhere between confused and resigned.
“A truck?”
“Yeah, yeah. It’s red, sturdy, reliable. None of that modern nonsense with screens and sensors that beep at everything. This one’s got soul, Maka. Just like you.”
She didn’t know whether to laugh or frown.
“Besides, I figured you wouldn’t like the idea of your old man driving you to school in a police cruiser,” Spirit added with a nervous chuckle.
Maka quickly looked away, as if to hide that, for a moment, it had seemed like a... thoughtful gesture.
“I’d rather walk in the rain than get into your cruiser,” she said at last, regaining her indifferent tone.
Spirit didn’t reply. He just gave a half-smile and turned onto a street flanked by tall, damp trees. At the end of the road, the wooden house appeared like a memory frozen in time.
And there it was, by the front door:
a red truck, old and rusty, but with an unmistakable presence. It looked like the kind of vehicle that sounds like a wheezing dragon when it starts, but could survive a nuclear apocalypse.
“Ta-da,” Spirit said, turning off the engine. “It’s yours.”
Maka stepped out slowly, dragging her suitcase and cautiously approaching the so-called gift. The paint was dull, one bumper was hanging off, and the side mirror had duct tape on it. Still… it had character.
Definitely not an ordinary truck.
“It has a name,” Spirit said, as if that made it better.
“A name?”
“Yeah, its previous owner called it The Beast.”
“…Charming.”
“You like it?”
Maka looked at him, thoughtful.
“It’s not as awful as I expected,” she said, which in her emotional language was the equivalent of thank you.
Spirit smiled like a child who’d just been allowed to eat dessert before dinner.
“I changed the oil, fixed the brakes, and filled the tank. You can drive it to school tomorrow if you want. The keys are in the kitchen, on the little table next to the phone.”
Maka nodded and climbed the porch steps without looking back. As she stepped through the door, the smell of old wood and reheated coffee wrapped around her.
The house was small but warm. And even though every corner screamed “Dad lives alone,” something about it felt… bearable.
Upstairs, she found a mix between what she remembered and what she never asked for: her old bed with the green sunflower quilt, a few rescued stuffed animals from some box, and books alphabetically arranged on a makeshift shelf.
She sighed.
Then let herself fall onto the bed, staring at the ceiling as if it held some sort of answer.
Forks.
The town of endless trees, constant rain… and now, her new beginning.
She was tired, but Maka wasn’t the kind of person who let exhaustion win, so she got out of bed and went downstairs to grab her suitcase, only to find Spirit arranging boxes with her belongings.
“I’ll help you carry the boxes upstairs and then I’ll come down to make dinner while you unpack,” Spirit said, placing the last box at the foot of the stairs. He seemed to hesitate for a moment before adding, “Or would you rather I help you unpack and we just order something?”
Maka raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms.
“Since when do you cook?”
Spirit feigned indignation.
“Hey! I’ll have you know I’m a master of instant ramen and burnt toast.”
“I’m not surprised.”
He let out a nervous chuckle and lifted a box.
“Come on, Maka. I just want to help a little, even if it’s just carrying heavy stuff.”
She didn’t respond, but she picked up one of the smaller boxes and started upstairs. Spirit followed in silence, as if afraid to ruin the tiny bit of progress he’d made that night.
Once in the room, Maka opened the first box with methodical movements. Books, notebooks, an old photo of her mother. Spirit watched from the doorway in silence.
“I remember that picture. Your mom took it in Death City, didn’t she?”
“Yeah,” Maka replied without looking up. “Right before…”
Spirit lowered his gaze, as if the words carried real weight.
“I know,” he whispered. “And I’m sorry, Maka. Every day.”
She shut the box abruptly and turned to face him.
“I’m not here for that, Dad. I’m not looking for apologies, or explanations, or to be a family again. I just need to get through senior year and move on with my life. Got it?”
He nodded slowly, as if that was the fairest deal he could hope for.
“Got it.”
Maka sighed, tired of being so hard all the time, but it was the only thing keeping her grounded.
“Now go burn those toasts. I’ve got this.”
Spirit smiled in relief, as if that order were a permission disguised as a tease.
“Yes, ma’am Albarn.”
Once he left, Maka sat on the edge of the bed. For a second—just one—she felt like maybe… maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe she could survive Forks.
She looked out the window. Rain tapped softly against the glass.
Tomorrow would be her first day at Forks High School.
Crap!
Tomorrow would be her first day at Forks High School!
Until that moment, she hadn’t really thought about how much she disliked the idea. Forks was a small town, rumors spread fast, so she was sure everyone already knew that the police chief’s daughter had moved in and would be attending the same school where everyone already knew each other.
And there she would be.
The new girl. The outsider.
The one from Death City—a place that sounded more like a video game than a real town.
The one with suitcases, emotional baggage, and zero desire to socialize.
“Perfect,” she muttered, falling back onto the bed.
She could already picture it all: sideways glances, awkward questions, whispers in the hallways. The half-conversations where her name would slide in like a shadow.
Is that Maka Albarn?
They say her mom’s a famous researcher.
They say her dad abandoned her and now wants to play the good father.
They say she had the best grades at her old school.
No, no, and… probably yes.
She sighed heavily, pressing her face into the pillow.
She didn’t want attention. She didn’t want friends.
She just wanted to stay under the radar, get good grades, and go back to her life as soon as possible.
But of course. When you wish for something with all your heart, the universe usually does the opposite.
And if Maka knew what was waiting for her in the halls of Forks High…
she wouldn’t have slept a single minute that night.
The next morning, she woke up feeling heavy and tired.
It was strange.
Maka Albarn was never sluggish in the morning—at least, not on school days.
She had always been punctual. Disciplined. The kind of person who set three alarms “just in case” and got up before any of them went off.
But that morning, her body felt like it was wrapped in a second skin of lead.
Damn weather, she thought, sitting up in bed and untangling her hair with her fingers.
In Death City, mornings were bright, dry, and noisy: cars, laughter, sun.
In Forks... everything felt asleep.
Raindrops tapped gently against her window, like someone outside was trying to lull her back to sleep instead of waking her up.
She looked at the clock: 6:47 a.m.
With a sigh, she got to her feet.
The wooden floor creaked under her bare feet as she searched for something to wear: dark jeans, a light shirt, and her trusty trench coat—one of those that weren’t pretty, but gave a sense of safety.
In Death City, she was often judged for wearing something so warm in such heat. At least here, that wouldn’t be a problem.
Still, she cursed having to wear jeans—she had always preferred short skirts, but had a strong suspicion she’d freeze her legs off if she wore one now.
She styled her hair into pigtails, tying them a little tighter than usual.
There was no one to impress, but ever since she was little, she had gotten used to keeping a presentable appearance.
She headed downstairs and found Spirit in the kitchen, already dressed in his police uniform and wearing a ridiculously pink apron with the phrase: “Real men cook with love.”
“Good morning, Maka!” he called cheerfully, flipping a pancake in the air. “Did you sleep well?”
“Sort of,” she replied, scratching her neck and sitting at the table. “I didn’t know you still wore that apron.”
“It’s my favorite! And it still smells like vanilla from that one batter incident!” he laughed, though she didn’t smile. She simply stared at her plate as he set down a stack of cat-shaped pancakes.
She raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
“She used to make them like that too,” Spirit added more quietly, a nostalgic smile on his lips as he sat across from her with a cup of coffee.
Maka looked down at the pancakes.
There was no need for him to say the name.
She knew exactly who he meant.
“You’re going to be late,” she said, changing the subject.
Spirit raised his eyebrows, surprised, but nodded with a trace of hidden sadness tugging at his mouth.
“Right… you’re right. I just wanted you to feel welcome,” he said, getting up and grabbing his coat from the rack. “The keys to the Beast are next to the phone, like I told you. Tank’s full. Drive safe, okay?”
“I’ll try,” she replied, without looking at him.
“Well then… see you later! If you need anything, I’ll be at the station. Don’t hesitate to ca—”
“Hey, Dad.”
He froze mid-step, half-turned toward the door, caught between surprise and hope.
“Yes, Maka?”
She glanced at him sideways, the corner of her mouth curving ever so slightly.
“The apron.”
Spirit looked down.
“Oh… right.”
He took it off immediately, fumbling a bit with the straps. He hung it hastily on a chair, clearing his throat.
“Thanks,” she said—barely audible, but enough.
Spirit smiled with a genuine glow, like that small gesture had made his day worthwhile.
“See you this afternoon,” he repeated, finally stepping outside.
Maka finished the pancakes in silence.
They were good.
Not as good as her mother’s… but decent enough not to complain.
She pulled on her boots, grabbed her backpack, and stepped out onto the porch, where the rain greeted her with its usual gray drumming.
The sky seemed lower than usual, like Forks was tucked under a heavy blanket of clouds.
She walked over to the truck and pried the door open.
The creak of rusted metal was almost painful, but she managed to get in without getting completely soaked.
The seat was cold—too cold for her taste.
She inserted the keys, mentally crossing her fingers… and to her surprise, the engine roared like an old, grumpy animal.
“Well done, Beast,” she murmured, giving the steering wheel a light tap.
She turned on the heater, cracked the window to clear the windshield, and checked her backpack for the tenth time.
Books, notebook, pen, ID…
There was no way around it: she was officially ready for her first day.
She entered the high school’s address into the GPS—just in case—and started the engine, carefully avoiding the puddles on the gravel path outside the house.
As she drove through the wet streets of Forks, Maka noticed how the houses passed by like ghosts in the mist.
Everything was green. Everything was gray.
And everything felt… expectant.
As if the town itself knew something was about to happen.
And Maka, though not one to believe in premonitions, couldn’t help but feel the same.