Mystery, Visions, and Deadly Celebrations

The streets of Santa Aurelia shimmer in the late afternoon sun, golden dust rising in whirlwinds as the town prepares for its most extravagant celebration in decades. Banners ripple between terra-cotta buildings, music pulses from the squares, and a thousand camera flashes ignite like fireflies trapped in amber.

At the heart of it all stands Adrien Vale—musician, heartthrob, heir to an empire of neon and platinum. And on his arm, the woman everyone came to see: Lena Carr, America's golden girl. A dazzling vision in silk and diamonds, she walks with Adrien like a figure from some ancient fresco: luminous, remote, destined.

Everyone is smiling except for Mira.

Mira DuPont leans on the edge of the rooftop balcony, sipping something cold from a cut-glass tumbler. Her cousin Elise lounges next to her, legs draped over the cushioned bench, watching the parade below with mild interest.

"He's glowing," Elise says, flicking a crumb from her skirt. "Like he swallowed a searchlight."

"He's doomed," Mira replies.

Elise raises a brow. "There it is. The sunshine of your disposition."

Mira doesn't answer. She watches the couple beneath them drift toward the cathedral steps, flanked by a tide of admirers and journalists. Adrien's hand rests on Lena's back like he's afraid she'll vanish. Lena, meanwhile, scans the crowd as though hunting for a trapdoor.

"You going to ruin the mood for everyone?" Elise asks.

"It's not a mood, it's a mirage," Mira mutters. "And someone should be worried."

Elise sighs and stretches like a cat in the sun. "Is this about the dream again?"

"They aren't dreams."

"You wake up screaming and babbling about fires and broken glass, Mira. What else should I call them?"

"Warnings." Mira sets down her glass. "I see what happens next. And it's never good."

"You said the same thing about the Elric wedding, and all that happened was someone dropped the cake."

Mira presses her fingers to her temple. "No. That wasn't the vision. It shifted. The outcome changed. Because someone listened."

Elise softens. "You think Adrien's in danger?"

"I know he is."

They fall into silence as the crowd below erupts into a roar. A drone camera buzzes past the balcony, humming like a lazy wasp. Lena lifts her face, smiling flawlessly for the sky.

Mira turns away.

Later that night, the celebration continues inside the Vale family estate—a mansion built into the cliffs above the sea, carved from alabaster and soaked in myth. Guests in formal wear drift from garden terraces to opulent halls. Champagne fizzes like stardust in their flutes.

Mira navigates the crowd like a ghost. Her black gown glints only when caught by a flash of candlelight. She doesn't speak much, but people part for her. The youngest Vale cousin, the strange one. A relic of old blood and some unknown grief.

She finds Adrien near the west atrium, talking to a group of fashion editors. His smile is wide, effortless.

"I need a word," she says.

He excuses himself and steps toward her, tone already wary. "You look... dramatic."

"You're in danger."

"And here I thought you'd be congratulating me."

"Adrien."

His smile fades. "You're serious. Again."

"Do you even know who Lena really is?"

"Don't start."

"I've seen her before. But it wasn't her. Not exactly. It was some echo. Some shade. And everything burned around her."

Adrien folds his arms. "I know you think these visions are real. But maybe they're just your mind telling you you're afraid."

Mira nearly laughs. "Of what? Happiness? That's never been my problem."

He shakes his head. "You never liked her."

"Because I feel what she is. Or what follows her. A storm. A trap."

"You want me to call it off?"

"I want you to survive."

He looks away, jaw tight. "You're wrong. She's the best thing that ever happened to me."

Mira touches his hand. "And you'll die thinking that."

Two days later, a yacht leaves Santa Aurelia for the open sea, bearing a hundred guests for the engagement cruise of the decade. Cameras track its departure like migrating birds. The ship vanishes into the horizon.

Mira doesn't board it.

She dreams that night of water turning red, of Lena standing at the prow in a white dress soaked to transparency, her eyes blank, her hands held aloft like a conductor summoning thunder.

The next morning, Mira calls Elise.

"Something's wrong."

"You say that every morning."

"No, I feel it this time."

Elise groans. "What do you want me to do?"

"Track the yacht. There's a storm coming."

"You said that last week."

"Because it's been building for days. This one feels real."

The yacht doesn't return on schedule. Communications go dark for eight hours. The coast guard is dispatched. Finally, a chopper locates the drifting wreck.

Fire damage. Several injured. One missing: Adrien Vale.

News breaks the next day: the yacht caught fire during the midnight fireworks. A system failure. Or sabotage. No one knows. Lena is found in a lifeboat, unconscious. Her dress is scorched. Her eyes remain closed for a full day.

Mira reads the headlines in silence.

A week later, the funeral is held. The urn is gold. The guests wear muted designer black. Lena stands beside Adrien's parents, pale and silent.

Mira doesn't cry.

Afterward, she finds Lena alone in the cliff garden beneath the rose arches.

"You survived," Mira says.

Lena looks at her slowly. "Did I?"

Mira waits.

Lena sighs. "You tried to warn him."

"Yes."

"Would it have mattered if I had left?"

"I don't know."

They look at each other for a long time. Then Lena touches Mira's hand.

"I dreamed of fire," she whispers. "Long before I met him. I thought it meant passion."

"It never does," Mira says.

That night, Mira dreams of the city again, but it's different. The sea is still. The streets are quiet. And the sky holds no smoke.

She wakes with tears on her face, the kind that falls without permission.

For once, she doesn't see the end. Only the beginning.

In the months that follow, the media transforms Adrien into a legend. Lena retreats from public life. The Vale family spins the tragedy into a foundation for maritime safety.

Mira stays in Santa Aurelia. Her visions soften. She paints, something she hasn't done since childhood. She writes letters she never sends.

Sometimes, she walks the cliffs at dusk, staring at the horizon, wondering what version of the future might still be possible.

One afternoon, she receives a letter. Handwritten. No return address.

Inside: a sketch of a flower. A single line beneath it:

"Some storms are just the beginning."

No signature. But Mira recognizes the penmanship. Clean. Exact.

She smiles.

It is spring again in Santa Aurelia. The banners return, though more subdued this year. Mira watches them from her rooftop, coffee in hand, the sea wind in her hair.

Elise joins her with a scarf and sunglasses.

"Still watching for ghosts?"

"Not anymore."

"Then what are you watching for?"

Mira tilts her head. "Something unexpected."

Far below, music starts again. But this time, it doesn't sound like a parade.

It sounds like hope.