Page 96 of Rise
“It’s the holidays, Mom.” Imogen’s voice dropped lower. “I’d like to come see you and Dad.”
Hazel felt the air shift. The temperature hadn’t changed, but it felt colder somehow. Thinner and more fragile, like porcelain left too long in the sun, fine cracks just waiting to splinter.
Imogen’s body stilled. Her shoulders, already tight, rose slightly, and then fell.
She turned just enough that Hazel saw her face in profile. The high planes of her cheekbone, the sharp line of her jaw, and something softer, almost raw, behind it all. Her mouth trembled for half a second before she pressed her lips together, breathing in through her nose as if the air itself was a wound.
She looked, in that moment, not polished or composed or distant— butyoung.Young in that awful, hollow way that settles when you realize something isn’t going to happen, no matter how desperately you want it to.
Then the voice came back, sharp this time, louder— performative.
“What do you mean I’m not…”
A beat.
“No, of course I don’t understand. I’m your daughter.”
Hazel flinched at the last word. Not because it was loud, but because it wasn’t. It sounded scraped raw, as if torn from a place it no longer wished to exist.
Imogen laughed then, the sound short and bitter and deeply unfunny. It cracked in the middle and fell away like ice off a gutter.
“Okay, then. Merry Christmas.”
Her mouth curled into a semblance of a smile, the kind people wear when they don’t want to be caught crying, and she pulled the phone slowly from her ear. She didn’t move for a second, just held it loosely in her gloved hand like she wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. Then she slid it into her coat pocket, gentle and deliberate, as if burying something valuable.
Hazel’s hand hovered near the frame, fingertips brushing the wood. Her mouth opened, then closed again. She could still pretend she hadn’t heard. Still walk away. But the weight in her chest had shifted and she knew she didn’t have it in her to leave Imogen alone, not like this. Not in a way she had been left alone, many times before.
So she opened the door a little wider and stepped out into the snow, the sound of Beck’s bell ringing out, filling the space between them.
“Hey.”
Imogen turned, the movement sharp, like an animal startled in the brush, as though instinct had overridden everything else. Her eyes flashed with recognition, and then something else took over. Her expression tightened, her spine straightened, a mask of forced composure snapping into place like a zipper pulled too high. Her chin lifted and her mouth curved into a smile that didn’t quite touch her eyes.
“Oh,” she said, staring down her nose in Hazel’s direction. “Hazel. Hello.”
It came out like a question disguised as a statement, or maybe the other way around.
Hazel didn’t answer right away. Instead, she took in the sight of Imogen standing alone at the edge of the street, swaddled in cream wool and candlelight, elegant as ever, every inch of her curated. But her eyes were glassy and her breath came too quick, and even beneath the perfect posture and sculpted calm, something in her looked undone.
Hazel could see it now, the sad girl beneath the harsh woman. And she wasn’t sure the realization of it would ever fade.
“You look…” Imogen started, then faltered. Her voice caught slightly, like it had landed wrong in her throat and she wasn’t sure whether to clear it or let it sit there. “Festive.”
Hazel let the word settle, unbothered. Then she gave the faintest nod.
“It’s the dress,” she said, finally, her tone soft and even. Not chilly, but not inviting either. Just... neutral. Measured. The kind of response that left room, if someone wanted to step into it, but didn’t demand that they do.
Hazel folded her arms around herself, the velvet brushing her forearms where her coat sleeves had slipped. Snow was gathering in delicate flurries at the tips of her boots, melting slowly into the worn rubber soles.
Imogen’s gaze dropped to them, lingered for a breath too long, then flickered back up. Her mouth twitched at one corner, like a thought had formed but died in her throat before she could give it shape.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Behind them, laughter drifted down Main Street in warm, overlapping waves, muffled only by the hush of snow. Hazel glanced across the road instinctively. Greyfin was glowing from the inside out, the windows fogged slightly from body heat and too many open drinks. The golden light spilled across the sidewalk like butter across toast, and through the frost-flecked glass she could just make out Leigh and Juno pressed shoulder to shoulder on a loveseat near the front of the store. They were laughing about something— wild, full-bodied laughter that made their heads tip all the way back, eyes squeezed shut, hands slapping knees like nothing in the world could hurt them tonight. It was the kind of laughter you felt in your ribs for hours after.
And then, cutting through the warmth like a bright ribbon, came a familiar voice from across the street.
“Hazel!”
