She'd eaten hours ago. The plate was still on the table, cold, crumbs stuck to the edge. Her notebook lay open, same page for the last twenty minutes. She wasn't even reading anymore. Just staring at the words like they might move if she waited long enough.
She already knew all this stuff. Top grades, perfect handwriting, the teacher's favorite name on the roll call. None of that made it any less boring.
So why keep studying something she could recite in her sleep?
Because she knew the money from her dad wouldn't last forever. He cared, sure — in his own distant, half-there way — but one day the calls would stop and so would the transfers. She wanted to be ready for that. Wanted to stand on her own feet, even if she had no idea where to walk after that.
After school came college. Then maybe a job. Then… what?
She sighed. Ugh, stop. Just shut up for a second.
The book closed with a slap. She leaned back in the chair, staring at the ceiling like it might answer something. Everyone her age thought about the future, didn't they? So why did it feel like only she was losing sleep over it?
Her mind wandered again. Does he ever think about stuff like this?
Alex. Her brother.
He hadn't visited in forever. Probably forgot she even existed.
She stood and stretched, dragging her feet toward the balcony. The air was cooler than she expected, brushing against her face, carrying that faint city hum — cars, laughter, someone's bad music from a nearby block.
She let her shoulders drop. Finally, quiet.
Then she turned her head — just slightly — and froze.
"You again."
The words slipped out before she could stop them. Her hand shot up halfway to her mouth like she could shove them back in. Why the hell did I even say that?
He turned, slow, steady. The dull orange balcony light cut across his face.
"You need something?" His tone was casual—flat, like he'd already lost interest.
"No—nothing." She turned her head away fast, pretending the city was suddenly very interesting.
He didn't push it. Just silence after that. The kind that fills itself.
She watched the skyline instead—neon flickers, car lights cutting through the dark, the hum of people still awake. Somehow it made her own thoughts smaller. Manageable. The future didn't seem that big, at least not for that moment. She'd figure it out when she had to.
World's a big place after all.
A slow breath escaped her lips. "Not sleeping early?"
"Yeah," he said. Flat as ever.
"Why?"
"Just not feeling it." He tilted his head toward her. "What about you?"
"Same." The word left her quietly. "Just… overthinking stuff. Future and all that."
"Future plans," he echoed, but softer—like the words weren't meant for her. Then nothing.
She didn't know why she was even talking to him. They weren't close—just classmates, neighbors. He always looked like trouble, the kind of guy she usually avoided. And yet here she was, standing in the cold, making small talk with him like it mattered.
Something about him drew her in. She couldn't name it—maybe the quiet, maybe the distance in his eyes—but it clicked somewhere deep inside her.
Yeah, that was all. Nothing more, nothing less.
"Can I ask you something?" she said, still looking at the lights in the distance.
No reply.
She turned her head a little, just enough to see his face from the corner of her eye. "Why you always act so… edgy?"
Paul didn't answer right away. He had that look—like her words were noise, just brushing past him. When he finally spoke, his tone was even, detached.
"Maybe that's just how I am."
"That's not an answer."
"Didn't say I had one."
The silence stretched again. Somewhere below, a car horn bled through the night, sharp then gone. The sound faded before either of them spoke again.
"You know," she said, her voice barely above the wind, "people might actually like you if you talked normal."
Paul gave a faint exhale that might've been a laugh—or just him breathing.
"Who says I want people to like me?"
She had no comeback for that. The quiet settled between them again, heavy but not awkward—just there.
She shifted a little, arms resting on the balcony rail. "Who are you anyway?"
Paul turned his head slowly, not surprised—just tired. "What kind of question is that?"
"The normal kind," she said, glancing at him. "You've been here for a month, right? Next door. Same school. And still, no one really knows you. You barely talk. You show up, disappear, repeat."
He looked away, down at the street—neon signs flickering across his face. "Maybe that's all there is to know."
"Yeah, right." She half-snorted, not buying it. "Everyone's got something. You don't just wake up and decide to live like a ghost."
Paul's fingers tapped once against the railing. "Some people do."
She leaned in a little, curious despite herself. "So what—no friends, no family, no one waiting for you?"
He didn't reply.
"I mean," she said quickly, "you don't gotta tell me your life story or anything. Just… it's weird, you know? The way you move, talk. Like you're in a different world half the time."
Paul finally looked at her. His gaze wasn't sharp, not defensive—just distant. "Maybe I am."
Her brows furrowed. "What does that even mean?"
He didn't answer. He just stared past her again, at something she couldn't see—something far beyond the railing, maybe not even in this city.
She sighed. "You're seriously impossible to talk to."
"Then stop talking."
"Maybe I should."
"Then do it."
"Fine."
"Fine."
They both stood there, quiet again. The night breeze moved through the narrow gap between them, carrying the faint sounds of traffic, laughter, a dog barking somewhere far off.
But she didn't leave. Neither did he.
"It's locked."
Julian's voice came out flat, echoing slightly off the quiet street.
465 Fester Street sat still under the fading night — a single-story apartment, white paint peeling off in long strips, windows sealed shut like they hadn't been opened in months. The streetlights flickered weakly, painting everything in a pale orange hue. Somewhere far off, a dog barked once, then silence.
Sara tried the handle again, then straightened. "Guess we break in then," she said, tone even, no hint of humor.
"Probably." Julian replied in the same steady tone. He stepped off the small porch, hands in his coat pockets, and started walking toward the left side of the building.
"Where you headed?" Sara asked, not moving yet.
"Just for a walk."
His steps were slow, deliberate. The side of the building opened into a wide alley — wide enough for a car to pass through and still leave room to walk. The ground was uneven, marked with oil stains and bits of glass glinting under the streetlight. A couple of trash bins lined the wall, one tipped slightly over.
Julian's eyes moved across everything — the windows half-covered with newspaper, a drainpipe leaking water, a garden hose coiled beside the wall. Then he turned right, reaching the back side of Rechel's house.
It was quieter here.
Without thinking, he closed the distance. The window curtains hung heavy, blocking out the faint light from the street.
Julian's hand brushed against the glass, fingers finding the edge of the frame. It slid open with a soft click — almost too easy. Like he already knew it would be left that way.
He gave a quick glance over his shoulder — left, then right — before slipping inside.
His shoes landed without a sound. A bedroom.
The curtains swayed behind him as he straightened up. A single lamp sat by the bedside, its light faint — yellow, dusty. The air carried traces of perfume, faintly sweet… but buried under it, something sharper. Cologne. Male.
He scanned the room with practiced eyes.
The bed — sheets slightly crumpled, only one side properly slept in.
Two mugs on the nightstand — one with a faded smear of lipstick, the other still rimmed with black coffee.
A folded shirt draped over the back of a chair — definitely not hers. Large size, rolled sleeves, collar loose like it's been worn often.
Julian stepped closer, the floor creaking softly under his weight.
He crouched near the edge of the bed, fingers brushing over a pair of faint marks on the wood.
Heavy shoes. A man's. He didn't need to think twice.
He looked around again — a razor on the bathroom counter, faint smell of aftershave lingering. The air told him what the papers wouldn't: someone else had been here. Lived here. Slept here.
Not a visitor. Not a guest. Someone comfortable.
Julian's lips twitched faintly.
"So the relative Halden mentioned wasn't just a ghost after all," he muttered.
A quiet sound broke through the silence — a sharp knock, the jolt of a latch. From the front door.
Julian's head turned slightly, every muscle tightening for a second.
He moved out of the bedroom, through the narrow hallway. The dim light from the kitchen cast long, pale streaks over the walls. The smell changed as he moved — faint detergent, something cooking once but long gone.
He caught sight of Sara standing by the entrance, her hand still on the door handle, shoulders steady, calm as ever.
Julian tilted his head, a question in his eyes. She nodded back, wordless — signal understood.
They split, silent and methodical.
Sara went left, scanning the kitchen and living space. Julian turned right, slipping past the dining table cluttered with unopened mail and half-read magazines.
Every sound — the slow hum of the fridge, the whisper of their coats brushing past — filled the quiet like it belonged there.
When they met again in the hallway, they didn't need to speak. The air itself told them.
Someone had been living with Rachel Kovac. A man.
Julian leaned by the doorframe, glancing back toward the bedroom. "Ain't this relative of hers a little too close? Guess I've got no chance with Rachel."
Sara didn't answer, just gave him that look — flat, unimpressed.
Julian smirked anyway. "Kidding. Mostly."
Then his gaze fell to the nightstand — the faint gleam of metal under the lamplight.
A wristwatch.
He bent down, picked it up gently. It was cold, heavier than it looked, with a faint scent of iron.
He studied it for a moment before sliding it into his coat pocket.
Sara's voice came from behind him, quiet but direct. "You find something?"
Julian's thumb brushed over the watch once, slow.
"Maybe," he said.
Silence again — that heavy, thoughtful kind that never really ends between them.
He finally broke it. "Did he call yet?"
Sara nodded slightly. "Yeah."
Julian straightened up, stretching his arms until his shoulders popped. "What did he say?"
"Nothing, as usual. Said we'll discuss it all together."
Julian breathed out a short laugh through his nose. "Alright then."
He looked around once more, gaze sweeping the quiet, heavy room.
"Guess it's finally time to lock in."