The Eye of Amber

The cupcakes had taken her three hours to make.

Mara arranged them on the kitchen table in a careful circle—seventeen of them—because that’s what you did when you turned seventeen and wanted to pretend someone might care. She’d piped frosting rosettes in lavender and cream, colors her mother had loved, according to the single photograph she kept hidden in her drawer. Silver and purple tissue stars hung from the ceiling, cut by hand the night before while her stepmother’s television droned through the wall.

Her phone sat face-up beside the cupcakes. No messages. No missed calls.

She knew better, but hope was a stubborn thing; it always made her check twice.

She checked again. Still nothing.

“You didn’t actually think anyone would come, did you?”

Her stepmother stood in the doorway, car keys in hand, the youngest balanced on one hip. Her eyes swept over the decorations with something that might have been pity—if pity required caring first.

“I just thought—” Mara began.

“You think too much.” The woman shifted the toddler higher. “Emma has soccer. We’ll be back by seven. Clean this up before your father gets home.”

The door closed. The house settled into silence.

Mara stood alone, surrounded by cupcakes no one would eat and decorations no one would see. Through the window, the October sky had gone gray and low, pressing down like a thumb.

Her step-siblings thundered down the stairs, arguing. They stopped when they saw her.

“What’s all this?” Marcus, ten and cruel in the way children learn from watching, poked a tissue star. It spun lazily. “Looks babyish.”

His sister giggled. “Is it your birthday? Did anyone come?”

They looked at the empty chairs. At her phone. At her face.

Marcus grinned. “Guess not.”

They left, laughter fading down the walk. Gravel crunched under tires as the car pulled away—small bones breaking.

She should clean up. Stop pretending.

Instead, she set a single cupcake before the empty chair at the head of the table and lit the candle on top—a cheap, ordinary candle that cost twenty-nine cents at the grocery store.

“Happy birthday to me,” she whispered.

She closed her eyes, blew.

The flame guttered but didn’t die. It swayed, bent almost horizontal, then straightened and burned steady.

She frowned, tried again.

The flame held.

She leaned closer, blew harder. The wax pooled and ran, but the light stayed lit, unwavering, as if fed by something more than wick and wax.

Her hands began to shake. “What—”

The front door opened. Her father’s voice called, tired and flat. “Mara? You home?”

She jumped, nearly knocking over the cupcake. “Yeah, I’m—”

He appeared in the doorway, still in his work uniform, grease under his nails. He looked at the decorations, the cupcakes, the single burning candle. His jaw tightened.

“Your birthday.” He said it like a fact he’d just remembered.

For a heartbeat, something flickered behind his eyes—fear, maybe, or guilt—before he forced it flat again. He’d learned long ago that silence could pass for safety, that if Mara didn’t know, she couldn’t be hurt the way her mother had been.

“It’s okay,” Mara said automatically. “You don’t have to—”

“I have to run back to the shop.” He was already turning away. “Bill needs me to close. There’s leftovers in the fridge.”

“Dad—”

But he was gone. The door shut. The house swallowed the sound.

Mara sank into the empty chair. The candle kept burning, small and defiant. She stared at it until her eyes stung.

“I wish someone could see me,” she said softly.

The flame flickered once. Twice.

Then the lights dimmed—just for a breath, just enough to notice.

She turned to the window.

A cat sat on the sill outside, pressed against the rain-streaked glass. Sleek and black, fur matted from the weather, eyes the color of sunsets and lamplight—amber-gold, fixed on her.

It didn’t blink.

Her breath caught. She’d left food out for strays before, but this one looked at her like it knew something.

The candle flame bent toward the window, stretching impossibly long, as if reaching.

The cat’s pupils narrowed to slits.

A warmth filled her chest, like a cup filling with honeyed tea—an answer, a hum that wasn’t quite sound, a door inside her creaking open for the first time in ten years.

The cat’s tail flicked once. Then it leapt from the sill, vanishing into the October dusk.

Mara sat frozen, pulse loud in her ears. The candle burned on, steady as a heartbeat.

She didn’t blow it out again.

The cat was back the next morning.

Mara spotted it on her walk to school—a shadow slipping between parked cars near the crossing guard’s post. It sat on the opposite sidewalk, watching.

She’d barely slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw that candle flame bending toward the window, those amber-gold eyes fixed on her like a question she couldn’t answer.

Her phone buzzed. A message from her stepmother: Emma forgot her inhaler. It’s on the counter. Bring it to school before nine.

No “please.” No “thank you.” Just another errand for the girl who didn’t quite belong.

Mara turned back. The cat followed.

She noticed it twenty feet behind, tail high, when she reached her street.

“Shoo,” she said softly. “Go home.”

The cat sat in the middle of the sidewalk, unblinking.

She grabbed the inhaler, left a note for her father, and took the park shortcut to the elementary school. That’s where she heard them—Tyler Reese and his friends, laughter like snapping twigs.

Between them crouched the cat, back to the fence, ears flat. Tyler held a stick. Another boy filmed with his phone. The third kicked at its paws each time it tried to bolt.

“Bet we can make it climb,” Tyler said. He jabbed. The cat hissed—a sound like tearing silk.

Mara’s feet stopped. Her heart didn’t.

Walk away, something whispered. You know what happens if you get involved.

She saw her empty birthday table, heard her siblings’ laughter, her stepmother’s scolding—years of learning to disappear.

The cat’s eyes found hers.

“Stop.” The word burst from her, small but sharp.

All three boys turned. Tyler grinned. “Oh, look. The ghost girl. You gonna cry?”

“It’s not my cat,” Mara said. “Just leave it alone.”

“Or what?” He stepped closer. “Who’s gonna listen to you?”

He was right. They all knew it.

Connor kicked again. The cat yowled, claws scrabbling at the fence.

Something inside her cracked.

“I said stop!”

This time her voice struck like thunder. The air rippled. Tyler’s grin faltered.

Connor stooped, threw a stone—

—and it froze, mid-air, three feet from the cat.

For a breath, the world held still. Then the stone dropped.

The boys stared. The cat sprang, claws raking Tyler’s arm—four red lines. He screamed, stumbling backward.

“Freak!” he shouted, clutching the blood. “Just like your weird mom!”

They ran.

Mara stood shaking, staring at her hand. The air around her hummed.

The cat approached, calm now, and sat beside her. She sank onto the playground mulch, breath ragged.

“I’m losing my mind,” she whispered.

The cat made a small sound—almost a question.

With trembling fingers, Mara pulled the lone cupcake from her bag, broke it in half, and set a piece between them.

“Might as well share the crazy,” she murmured.

They ate in silence, morning light warming the frost-tipped grass.

“Thanks,” she said quietly. “For being here.”

After dropping the inhaler, she made it to class just as the bell rang.

That night she dreamed a lullaby—her mother’s voice: The blood remembers what the mind forgets.

When she woke, the cat was on her windowsill.

It blinked once. Twice. Then opened its mouth.

“You passed.”

The voice was low, feminine, edged with thunder.

Mara froze. “You—you just—”

“Spoke. Yes.” The cat stretched, unconcerned. “I’ve waited ten years for you to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Choose compassion over safety. Stand when it costs you something.”

“I’m hallucinating.”

“You’re awake.” Its eyes caught the faint streetlight. “For the first time since your mother died, Mara Thorne, you are finally awake.”

The night seemed to still around them.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

The cat rose, fur tipped amber where moonlight touched it.

“My name,” it said, “is Ashen. And I have been waiting a very long time to tell you what you are.”

The next day, Mara didn’t go to school.

She followed the cat—Ashen—back to her house, moving like a sleepwalker, her mind still replaying that impossible moment: the stone hanging in midair, Tyler’s blood on the cat’s claws, the voice that shouldn’t exist saying you passed.

Her father’s truck was gone. The house stood empty and waiting.

Ashen slipped through the gap under the porch and emerged by the back door.

“How do I know you’re real?” Mara asked. Her voice sounded thin. “How do I know I didn’t just… break?”

“You didn’t break.” Ashen’s tail flicked. “You remembered.”

“Remembered what?”

“What you are. What your mother was.” The cat’s eyes caught the light. “Open the door, Mara.”

Her hands shook as she turned the key. The house smelled like stale coffee and lavender detergent, achingly normal. Ashen walked inside like she owned the place, heading straight for the stairs.

“Where are we going?”

“To what your mother hid.” The cat paused. “She loved you enough to bury it where even they couldn’t find it. The spell was only meant to last until you were ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“To claim your inheritance.”

The attic. Mara’s stomach tightened. She’d been up there maybe twice in ten years. She climbed, the wooden steps creaking, Ashen moving soundlessly beside her.

Mara pushed the attic door open and stepped into dusty darkness, pulling the light-string. The bulb flickered, then steadied. Boxes everywhere. Nothing that belonged to her mother.

“I don’t see anything,” Mara said.

“You’re not looking,” Ashen jumped onto a stack of boxes. “You’re seeing. There’s a difference. Close your eyes.”

Mara obeyed. The darkness behind her eyelids felt thick, like water.

“Now,” Ashen’s voice came from her left, “stop trying to see. Feel for what doesn’t belong. What wants to be found.”

“I don’t know how—”

“Yes, you do. You caught a stone in midair. You made a candle refuse to die. Your mother spent her last breath protecting you. That kind of love doesn't just disappear. It waits.”

Mara breathed in. Out.

At first, nothing. Just the smell of dust and the creak of the house.

Then—

A pulse. Faint, rhythmic, like a heartbeat that wasn’t hers. It came from the far corner, behind the water heater.

Her eyes snapped open. “There.”

She crossed the attic, squeezing between boxes. The corner was dark and cobwebbed.

And behind the clutter, pressed flat against the wall—

Nothing. Just bare wood.

“I felt something,” Mara said, frustrated. “Right here.”

“You did.” Ashen appeared beside her. “Touch it.”

Mara reached out. Her fingertips touched the wallpaper—

Pain. Sharp and immediate, like an electric fence. Her hand jerked back.

“What was that?”

“A ward. A very good one.” Ashen’s ears flattened. “Your mother bound it with blood and intention, keyed it to keep out anyone who meant you harm. Including your father, if he tried to destroy what she left.”

“But I can’t get through—”

“You can.” The cat’s gaze pinned her. “You’re her daughter. Her magic recognizes you. But you have to ask permission. You have to mean it. Tell the magic you’re ready.”

Mara stared at the blank wall, her heart hammering. She thought of the photograph she kept hidden—her mother’s face, young and smiling. She thought of the shape of absence that had defined her entire life.

“I’m ready,” she whispered to the wall. To her mother. “Please. I need to know who I am.”

Her hand moved forward again, slow, palm open.

This time when she touched the wallpaper, warmth flooded through her—not painful, but vast, like diving into sun-warmed water. The wall rippled under her fingers, solid becoming liquid, and the wallpaper peeled back on its own.

Behind it: a door.

Small, barely three feet high, cut directly into the wall.

“She hid it in plain sight,” Ashen said softly. “Where only you could open it.”

Mara’s hand found the small iron handle. She pulled.

The door swung open on silent hinges, revealing a space no bigger than a shoebox.

Inside: a wooden box, dark and polished, covered in a fine layer of dust.

Mara lifted it out with trembling hands. It was heavy, warm to the touch.

“Open it,” Ashen said. “It’s yours now.”

Mara set the box on the floor and knelt beside it. Lifted the lid.

Inside, nestled in faded velvet:

A leather-bound diary, slim and worn.

And a pendant on a long chain, shaped like an eye with an amber iris.

Mara’s hands shook as she reached for the diary. She opened it to the first page.

For Mara, when she’s ready. When she’s strong enough to carry what I couldn’t.

Her mother’s handwriting.

She turned the page.

April 2nd

They’re watching the house again. I saw their car—black sedan, tinted windows. They always drive the same ones, like fear is part of the method. James doesn’t believe me. He doesn't understand that some hunts last generations.

June 30th

They know about Mara. Someone saw her at the park, caught her healing that bird with the broken wing. I tried to teach her to hide it, but she’s so open, so kind. How do you teach a child to be afraid of her own goodness?

August 3rd

I’m running out of time. Ashen agrees. Tonight, I’ll perform the binding. I’ll hide her magic so deep they’ll never find it. Even if it means she’ll forget me.

Better to be forgotten than destroyed.

The entries stopped, then picked up with one final page, the ink pressed hard into the paper.

August 4th

If you’re reading this, Mara, it means the spell broke. It means you’re seventeen—the age when magic can’t be suppressed anymore, when it demands to be acknowledged.

I’m so sorry I couldn’t be there to teach you.

If you are reading this, most likely the Hunters have killed me by now. They’ll come for you too, when they realize you exist. They’re not monsters as much as people driven by fear dressed in righteousness’s clothing.

You have a choice I never did: you can hide what you are, or you can claim it. You can let them make you small, or you can let your light burn.

Whatever you choose, know this: magic isn’t evil. It’s simply power—and power is only as good or as cruel as the one who wields it.

The blood will remember what the mind forgets. Trust Ashen. Trust yourself.

I love you. I have always loved you. Even in death, I am with you.

—Mom

The diary ended there.

Mara sat in the dusty attic, clutching her mother’s words, and cried. Not the quiet, swallowed tears she’d learned to hide, but deep, wrenching sobs that tore out of her like they’d been buried for ten years.

Ashen pressed against her side, warm and solid and real.

“She died protecting you,” the cat said softly. “She gave you ten years of safety. That was her gift.”

“They killed her because of what she was.” Mara’s voice broke. “Because of what I am.”

“Yes.”

“And they’ll come for me too.”

“Eventually.” Ashen’s tail curled around Mara’s wrist. “But you’re not seven anymore. And you’re not alone.”

Mara lifted the pendant from the box—the amber eye. In the weak attic light, it seemed to glow from within.

She held it up to the light. The amber caught the room’s dim glow like a living eye—seeing her, seeing through her.

When she fastened it around her neck, something settled into place. Like a key turning in a lock. Like coming home.

“Every light burns something, child. Remember that,” Ashen murmured, eyes reflecting the glow.

“Then let it burn,” Mara whispered.

The warmth deepened, steady as a pulse.

“What happens now?” she whispered.

“Now,” Ashen said, “you learn what your mother died trying to teach you. And when they come, you decide who you want to be.”

From somewhere below, the front door opened. Her father’s voice called up, tired and wary: “Mara? You home? School called.”

Mara looked at the box, at the diary, at the pendant that was warm against her sternum.

She looked at Ashen.

“What do I tell him?”

“The truth,” Ashen said. “Or nothing. But you can’t hide anymore. The spell is broken. Your magic is awake.” The cat’s voice gentled. “And so, Mara Thorne, are you.”

Mara gathered the box, held it close, and stood.

She descended the attic stairs, and with each step, she felt herself solidifying—not disappearing, but becoming more real than she’d ever been.

Her father stood at the bottom, looking up. His face went white when he saw what she was carrying.

For a moment, his mouth opened—an apology ten years too late—but no words came. He’d built his silence out of fear, convinced that ignorance could protect her. But lies, he was learning, were only another kind of wound. “Where did you find that?” His voice was barely audible.

Mara met his eyes. For the first time in years, she didn’t look away.

“Where Mom left it,” she said. “Where it was always meant to be.”

Behind her, unseen, Ashen’s eyes glowed in the shadows.

Her mother’s voice echoed faintly: Power was never in the flame, but in choosing to keep it lit.

The truth, it seemed, had teeth.

And somewhere beyond the walls, the night stirred. When they come, will she be ready?

THE END