The wind smelled of metal and rain as I left the house. I pulled my hood low over my face, even though the rain had almost stopped. The sky hung heavily over the city, gray-blue, as if cast from lead. It was half past nine, but the streets felt like dawn – empty, subdued, too quiet.
I had told Mom I needed to get something for school. She had just nodded without looking up. Dad was in the living room, the rustling of his newspaper like a steady heartbeat throughout the house. Tom was already asleep.
I snuck out, closing the door until it only clicked softly. Every sound felt too big.
The river was fifteen minutes away. I knew the path – it used to be our walking route, when we still had picnics together. Now it was a long tunnel of darkness and memory. Streetlamps reflected in puddles, trembling spots of light on the asphalt. A stray cat darted across the street, its fur wet, its eyes briefly like sparks.
I walked faster.
