“Ma’am, there’s a dark shadow over you, an omen of bad luck! Give me three rolls, and I’ll help you change your fate!”

Ivy sloane stood in front of the small bakery, her navy-blue cloak draped over her thin frame. Her dark hair was pulled into a messy bun, and dirt smudged her pale face. Despite her disheveled appearance, her expression was completely serious.

Mrs. Turner, busy arranging loaves in her shop, scowled. Getting cursed first thing in the morning was not how she wanted to start her day.

She turned sharply, ready to snap at the girl—until she actually looked at her. Ivy’s face was gaunt, her eyes hollow with hunger. The woman hesitated, then sighed and reached into a bag, pulling out five rolls.

“Here, take them. And keep your charms to yourself.”

Ivy Sloane wasted no time devouring the bread. Then, wiping crumbs from her mouth, she pulled a small, worn slip of paper from her pocket and pressed it into Mrs. Turner’s hands.

“I’m not taking charity,” she insisted. “This is for your protection. Keep it with you, and it’ll keep you safe.”

Before the woman could argue, Ivy folded the charm into a small triangle, slipped it into her coat pocket, and turned away.

Mrs. Turner frowned. “Wait! Where are you going?”

“To the capital,” Ivy called over her shoulder. She waved once, then disappeared down the street.

Ivy had always been different.

She had been abandoned as a newborn, left by a riverbank with no name and no past.

Because she could see things others couldn’t.

Spirits, shadows, the lingering traces of the dead—her second sight made her an outcast. If not for Ethan Farris, a traveling mystic who took her in, she wouldn’t have survived. Under his care, she studied the old ways—divination, sigils, and the ancient art of protection magic.

But a week ago, Ethan passed away. And before he died, he left her with one final message:

“Ivy, I arranged a marriage for you. He’s the key to your survival. Find him in the capital before it’s too late.”

She had known since childhood that her life wasn’t meant to last. Her energy was wrong—too cold, too unstable. Ethan had warned her: she wouldn’t live past twenty.

Tomorrow is her twentieth birthday.

Which meant she had one day left.

If she wanted to survive, she had to find this mysterious fiancé.

But the closer she got to her birthday, the worse her luck became.

Disaster trailed behind her like a curse.

The moment she stepped outside, a mudslide nearly buried her alive.

A freak lightning strike fried her old phone.

She barely made it to the train station, only to realize she’d spent every last dollar on a ticket.

Ivy refused to die. She wanted to live.

But first, she had to get to the capital.

Walking wouldn’t get her there in time.

She needed a ride.

Or she needed to steal one.

That evening, Mrs. Turner locked up her shop and rode her old electric scooter through the narrow streets.

Just one more turn, and she’d be home.

“A bad omen? A looming disaster?”

She huffed. Kids these days believe the strangest things.

CRASH!

A loud noise rang out behind her, making her stomach lurch.

She slammed the brakes and turned around.

A heavy flower pot had fallen from a second-story window, shattering into shards just inches from where she had been moments ago.

Her pulse pounded in her ears. The pavement was covered in sharp fragments—yet not one had touched her.

If she had been even a second slower, the pot would have hit her square in the head.

Her hands trembled as she reached into her pocket and pulled out Ivy’s charm.

It had turned to ash.

Her breath caught in her throat.

“That girl… she wasn’t lying.”

Slowly, Mrs. Turner stepped off her scooter, turned in the direction of the capital, and bowed her head.

“Whoever you are… thank you for saving me.”

By three in the morning, the streets were eerily silent, blanketed in thick fog. The air had turned bone-chillingly cold, making Ivy pull her cloak tighter around herself.

A sharp gust of wind howled through the empty road.

Then, out of nowhere, a yellow taxi rolled up to the curb.

A strange, tattered flag fluttered from its antenna, covered in faded symbols, Ivy couldn’t quite make out.

The driver rolled down the window.

“Need a lift, miss?”

Ivy stepped closer, inspecting the car.

The entire thing was plastered with SpongeBob SquarePants stickers.

Of all the haunted taxis in the world, she had to get this one.

Without hesitation, she yanked open the door and slid inside. “Take me to the capital.”

The driver hesitated. In the mirror, his expression shifted.

This girl had no fear.

Slowly, he turned toward her. His face was ghostly pale.

Then, with a sickening pop, he reached up and plucked out his eyeballs.

Blood streamed down his cheeks, soaking into his collar. The entire car filled with the thick, metallic stench of iron.

The driver grinned, revealing rows of yellowed, rotting teeth.

“Surprised, sweetheart?” His voice was low, sing-song.

He leaned closer, his hollow eye sockets dark and dripping.

“I’m a ghost.”