The morning sun cut through Hawkins like thin knives, streaking across the pavement and bouncing off the tall school bricks. I walked the familiar route, backpack slung over one shoulder, eyes tracking every subtle shift in the hallways, every movement in the shadows. Years in this town had taught me that the world rarely moved as it seemed.
The school doors opened, and children poured into the hallways, laughing, shouting, bumping into one another. I stayed against the wall, unnoticed. Mike Wheeler walked ahead, Lucas Sinclair beside him, Dustin Henderson chattering incessantly. Will Byers lagged behind, his movements cautious, shoulders tense. Something about him always drew my attention, a fragile edge in the way he carried himself.
I adjusted my backpack, pretending to shuffle my books, while my eyes flicked over the hallway. Mike laughed at Lucas's joke, Dustin added his own commentary, and Will flinched slightly at the noise, stepping carefully. The shadows seemed to hang around him, subtle but different. I sensed a presence in the edges of the hall, patient, watching—not visible, not tangible, but unmistakable.
Class passed in a blur. I sat near the back, pretending to focus on lessons, though my mind traced the details beyond the classroom walls. The light from the windows cast patterns across the desks, the floors creaked under shifting footsteps, and the faint vibrations of movement passed through the air. I cataloged it all, quietly, taking note of the tiniest inconsistencies. Will's attention flickered constantly, darting from corner to corner, and I could feel the tension coiled around him, though he had no idea why.
Lunchtime was a storm of noise. Children shouting, chairs scraping, trays clattering. I slipped into a corner with a clear view of the group. Mike, Lucas, Dustin sat together, laughing. Will kept to himself, moving quietly among the tables. The shadows around him seemed to shift just slightly differently, more deliberate, more deliberate than the chaos of other children. I felt the pull toward him—not from the crowd, but from something deeper, something waiting beyond sight.
I moved subtly closer, keeping my distance, pretending to adjust my jacket. Will shuffled his tray, barely noticing me. My instincts tightened at the edges—not in alarm, but in focus. There was attention directed at him, invisible yet present, patient and deliberate. I could not see it clearly, but it was there. The town had corners that moved differently, and he was stepping right into one.
After lunch, the hallways stretched out empty as other students returned to class. Mike, Lucas, and Dustin went ahead, laughing and arguing playfully. Will stayed behind, quieter, cautious, aware in ways that matched my own observations. Shadows in the corners of the hall seemed to linger near him. I walked at a measured pace, keeping him in my sight without alerting anyone else.
Recess passed in sunlight and chaos. I stayed at the edges of the playground, pretending to watch the swings while my eyes tracked Will. He was careful, moving slowly, avoiding the center of the chaos. Even in broad daylight, there was a subtle tension around him, a pull that I noticed instinctively. Something lingered, patient and unseen, just beyond ordinary perception.
The afternoon classes dragged on. My gaze wandered over the classroom walls, the pattern of sunlight on the floor, the shifting shadows of students and teachers alike. I observed every small twitch, every flinch, every glance that might betray what was unseen. Will's careful glances, the subtle shift of his weight, the hesitation in his steps—they were markers, signals I was trained to notice.
By the time we left school, the sun had begun to dip behind the trees, elongating the shadows across the streets. The group moved ahead—Mike leading, Lucas in the middle, Dustin chattering—but I lingered behind slightly, keeping Will in sight. He glanced back once, eyes searching, but his glance passed over me. Good. He didn't need to know yet.
The walk back to the orphanage was quiet. The streets were familiar, lined with familiar bricks and familiar shadows, yet the subtle differences in light and movement were all noted. Will's posture was still cautious, but steady. He was careful not to attract attention. And yet I could feel the thread of something nearby—patient, watching him. Not visible, not obvious, but present. I did not need to see it fully to know.
Evening fell. The orphanage quieted. Caretakers moved through routines, closing doors, checking on rooms. I slipped to my corner, tracing the worn patterns of the carpet with my fingers, my mind cataloging the sounds, the shadows, the subtle tensions in the air. Will's room was down the hall, and though he was unaware, I could feel the attention around him lingering, a subtle pull of danger that he could not yet name.
I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the quiet settle around me. Three years in Hawkins had taught me patience, taught me how to observe without interference. Shadows shift, the wind whispers, the town moves in patterns most cannot perceive. And here, in this fragile evening calm, I felt the weight of the unseen pressing lightly, gently, like it was waiting for the right moment.
I opened my eyes. The corridors stretched empty, the light dimming, shadows lengthening. Awareness was my companion, observation my shield. Noah Gray. Watching. Noticing. Separate, yet quietly entwined with the hidden edges of Hawkins. And for tonight, that was enough.