The morning light felt wrong.
Too bright. Too sharp.
Leo blinked against it as he sat up, his sheets tangled around his legs. His heart was already beating faster than it should, as if he'd woken mid-run. For a moment, he thought the pulse he felt under his ribs was ordinary. Then he felt it — the other rhythm. Slower. Heavier. Out of sync.
He pulled his wrist from beneath the blanket. The faint ring beneath his skin was barely visible now, only a whisper of silver that caught the light when he moved. It didn't glow anymore, not exactly, but it pulsed faintly when he stared too long.
Leo tugged his sleeve down quickly.
Downstairs, the smell of coffee and toast drifted through the hallway — the sound of dishes, his mother humming softly. Normal sounds. Too normal.
He forced himself out of bed and changed, every motion careful. His body felt different — not weaker, but heavier, as if each step carried a hidden weight.
By the time he entered the kitchen, his mother was setting two plates on the table. She smiled the moment she saw him. "Morning, sweetheart. You're up early for once."
Leo tried to smile back. "Yeah. Just… couldn't sleep."
She studied him for a second, eyes soft but searching. "You look pale. Are you still having those dizzy spells?"
"No," he said quickly. "I'm fine."
She nodded, though her frown lingered as she poured juice into a glass. "You should tell me if you're not."
"I will," Leo murmured, taking his seat. He focused on the toast, on anything but her gaze. The ticking of the kitchen clock suddenly felt loud — too loud — and his heartbeat fell into step with it, perfectly synchronized for three ticks before slipping out of rhythm again.
He clenched his hand in his lap until the pulse settled.
His father entered a few minutes later, already half-dressed for work, tie crooked. "Morning, champ."
Leo nodded, managing a small grin. "Morning."
His father ruffled his hair, too rough, like old times. "You doing okay? School not wearing you out?"
"Not really," Leo lied. "It's just a lot to catch up on."
"You'll get there," his father said, glancing at his watch. "You always do."
His mother gave a small, bright laugh that didn't sound quite real. "He works too hard. I told you he was up studying last night."
Leo forced another smile, his chest tightening. He hadn't been studying. He'd been sitting in the dark, counting his heartbeats, waiting for one of them not to be his.
The three of them sat together, talking about harmless things — groceries, neighbors, the weekend forecast. Ordinary conversation. But Leo could feel every word like static around him, each sentence brushing the surface of a life he no longer fit inside.
At one point, his mother reached for the jam jar, her sleeve brushing his wrist. He jerked back instinctively.
"Sorry," she said quickly. "Did I—?"
"It's fine," he said, too fast, pulling his arm back to his side.
She looked at him again, worried now. "Leo—"
"I'm just tired," he said.
The words hung there. Familiar. Automatic. The same excuse he'd been using since he woke up.
He finished his breakfast in silence, pretending not to see the way both his parents kept glancing at him when they thought he wasn't looking.
When he finally stood, his chair scraping quietly against the floor, his mother asked softly, "You'll be home after school today?"
Leo hesitated. "Yeah," he said. "I will."
She smiled, relieved. "Good."
He left before she could see the guilt on his face.
In the hallway mirror, he caught his reflection — pale skin, tired eyes, the faint shape of a boy still pretending to belong in his own house. He adjusted his sleeve again, hiding the mark, and walked out into the morning light that didn't feel like his anymore.
The house felt smaller when he came back in the afternoon.
Sunlight poured through the windows in warm slants, catching dust motes in the air. His mother was in the kitchen again, this time stirring a pot on the stove. The smell of something sweet filled the room — apples, cinnamon, maybe honey. It was the kind of smell that used to make him feel safe.
Now, it only made him uneasy.
"Hey, you're home early," she said without turning around.
Leo nodded, setting his bag quietly by the table. "No club meeting today."
"That's good." She gave the pot one last stir, turned off the stove, and faced him with a soft smile that didn't quite hide her tired eyes. "How's school? You managing okay?"
"Yeah," he said automatically.
She leaned against the counter, wiping her hands on a towel. "You sure? You've been coming home looking… worn out."
"I'm fine, Mom."
"You said that this morning," she said, her tone careful, gentle. "You've said that a lot lately."
Leo glanced down, focusing on the edge of the table. The faint hum under his skin pulsed again, subtle but unmistakable. He shoved his hands into his pockets to hide the twitch in his fingers.
"I guess I'm just adjusting," he murmured.
Her voice softened. "It's okay if it's hard, Leo. It's been a long time since you've had a normal routine. No one expects you to jump right back in."
"I know," he said.
"Your teachers say you're quiet. Is something going on?"
He shook his head, too quickly. "No. I'm fine, really."
She studied him for a moment longer, searching his face for cracks. Then she sighed, gave a small smile, and reached out to brush his hair from his forehead. "You've grown so much," she said softly. "Sometimes I still wake up thinking you're eight."
He tried to smile, but it felt brittle. "Guess I missed a few birthdays."
Her laugh came quiet, almost sad. "Too many." She stepped back toward the counter, picking up the towel again, folding it just to have something to do with her hands. "We're lucky you're here, you know that? I don't think I ever said that enough."
Leo's throat tightened. He wanted to tell her everything — about the basement, Felix, the light that had burned into him — but even imagining the words made his chest hurt.
Lucky. That was what she called it.
He looked past her, toward the window over the sink. Outside, the trees shifted gently in the wind. The sound of the refrigerator hummed softly beside them, steady and rhythmic.
Then he noticed it — the hum was syncing again. The same slow pattern beneath his ribs, matching perfectly with the mechanical rhythm of the fridge's motor.
His skin prickled. He took a small step back.
His mother turned at the motion. "Leo?"
"Nothing," he said quickly. "Just… dizzy for a second."
"Sit down," she said, concerned.
"I'm fine." He forced a small smile. "Promise."
The hum stopped. The world was ordinary again.
She hesitated, watching him a beat longer before nodding. "Alright. But promise me you'll rest tonight, okay?"
"I will."
He left the kitchen before she could say anything else.
Upstairs, the house seemed to hold its breath. He leaned against the wall outside his room, heart racing. The silence between heartbeats stretched long and thin — then came the faint, answering rhythm, softer but certain, pulsing from the mark beneath his skin.
He pressed his wrist against the wall to make it stop.
It didn't.
By the next morning, Leo had almost convinced himself he looked normal.
He'd slept little, the hum under his skin flickering off and on like a faulty signal. Each time it started, he pressed his wrist under the pillow until it stopped. By dawn, he was hollow-eyed but steady, good enough to pass.
At least, that's what he told himself.
The hallways at school were loud again — footsteps, laughter, the crash of lockers. The sounds came at him in waves, and his chest seemed to echo each one. He walked faster, head down, hoping to slip through unnoticed.
But Betty spotted him before he reached the stairwell.
"Leo!"
Her voice cut through the noise, too sharp to ignore. She jogged up beside him, her bag bumping against her hip, eyes wide with a mix of relief and frustration.
"You've been disappearing again," she said.
Leo blinked, forcing a small laugh. "Disappearing? I'm right here."
"Don't joke." She grabbed his sleeve, pulling him aside near the vending machines. "You skipped the last two study sessions. Liam said you left before practice yesterday."
He glanced at her hand on his arm — too close to the mark beneath the fabric — and gently pulled free. "I had things to do."
"Things like what?"
"Stuff. Errands."
"Errands," she repeated, eyebrows lifting. "That's what you're calling them now?"
Leo avoided her eyes, pretending to check the machine's display. "Betty, it's fine. I just needed some space."
"Space?" Her tone softened, less anger now, more worry. "Leo, you can talk to me, you know that, right?"
He nodded. "I know."
"Then talk."
He hesitated, a dozen truths pressing against his throat — the door, Felix, the pain, the light still burning under his skin. But he couldn't say any of it. Saying it out loud would make it real again.
"I just haven't been sleeping," he said finally. "That's all."
Betty frowned. "You look worse than not-sleeping bad."
He laughed weakly. "Thanks."
She sighed, folding her arms. "You've been… different since you woke up. I mean, I get it — that's a lot for anyone — but it's like you're somewhere else half the time. I'm not trying to be annoying, I just—"
She stopped herself, glancing away, biting her lip.
"You just what?" he asked quietly.
"I just miss you, that's all."
The words hung there, soft but heavy.
Leo felt his chest tighten again — not just the strange pulse this time, but guilt threading through it. He looked down at his shoes. "I miss me too," he said before he could stop himself.
Betty blinked, a small crease forming between her brows. "What does that mean?"
"Nothing," he said quickly. "Forget it."
Her frown deepened. "Leo—"
The bell rang, sharp and sudden. Students began to move, filling the hall with noise again. Betty stepped back, exhaling in frustration.
"Fine," she said. "But you're not fooling anyone. If something's wrong, you can't hide it forever."
"I'm fine," he said again — the lie smooth now, practiced.
She gave him one last look, half hurt, half stubborn. "You used to be terrible at lying."
Then she turned and walked away.
Leo stood there long after the hallway emptied, her words echoing louder than the bell. His wrist pulsed beneath his sleeve, a slow, mechanical rhythm that almost felt like mockery.
He pressed his hand over it, whispering, "Stop."
It didn't.
The house was dim when he got home.
A single lamp in the living room spilled a soft glow over the carpet. His parents were there, the low murmur of their conversation carrying faintly through the doorway — the sound of an ordinary night.
Leo lingered in the hall, shoes still on, his bag hanging loosely from one shoulder. For a moment, he considered stepping in, joining them, pretending he belonged there again. He could almost see it — sitting between them on the couch, laughing at some small thing his mother said, his father handing him a cup of tea.
But he stayed where he was.
The hum beneath his skin had returned, faint but persistent, syncing with the steady rhythm of their voices. It made him feel like an echo — near them, but not of them.
His mother laughed softly at something his father said. The sound should've been comforting. Instead, it made his throat ache.
He turned away and went upstairs.
His room felt colder than before. The shadows seemed to hang heavier in the corners, like they knew what he was hiding. He set his bag down and sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the wall.
The mark under his skin pulsed once, faintly visible in the dim light. He pulled his sleeve lower, then pressed his palm over it. The warmth there felt alive, separate — like a second heartbeat that belonged to someone else.
He whispered, "I'm still me."
The silence didn't answer.
Outside his door, he heard his mother's voice drifting up the stairs — soft, tired, asking if he wanted dinner. Leo didn't reply.
After a while, the light under his door went out.
He stood, walked to the window, and looked out over the street. The rain had stopped; the pavement glistened in the glow of a streetlight. In the reflection on the glass, he caught a faint shimmer under his skin — the silver ring flickering once, then fading.
He lifted his wrist, turning it toward the light. "Stop," he whispered again, but the pulse beat on, calm and steady, indifferent to him.
Downstairs, laughter floated up again, faint and distant.
Leo lowered his hand and sat back on the edge of the bed, his sleeve still tugged over the mark. He watched the shadows move across his room as headlights passed outside, his thoughts circling the same quiet truth he couldn't escape:
He was surrounded by people who loved him — and yet, somehow, he'd never felt more alone.