A Year Younger

The first sound that greets me that morning isn’t my alarm, but the thin wail of sirens cutting through the dawn. For a moment I think it’s part of my dream, a chaotic blur of neon streets and running feet, but when my eyes blink open, the sound is still there, breaking the gray hush of morning. My room is washed in the flicker of red and blue lights spilling through the bay window.

I drag the blanket tighter around my shoulders and shuffle to the window, bare feet cold on the floorboards. Down on the street, two police cruisers sit at crooked angles, their doors hanging open. Officers move in sharp, purposeful bursts, their radios coughing static and clipped code. Across the road, Mrs. Patterson—my eighty-year-old neighbor—stands on her porch in a thin nightgown, barefoot, clutching a ginger cat that I know isn’t hers.

The sirens cut off, leaving an eerie stillness broken only by the occasional squawk of a radio.

I press my forehead against the cool glass, trying to make sense of the scene. The Silva mansion has always been more of a landmark than a home—its tall iron gates, ivy crawling up the stone walls, windows that always seemed shuttered no matter the season. Nobody really saw the Silvas much, except for the delivery drivers who dropped off boxes at odd hours.

But now, the front door is wide open.

An officer steps inside, his flashlight cutting through the darkness. Another stands guard at the gate, speaking rapidly into his radio.

Mrs. Patterson’s cat—no, not her cat—hisses and wriggles out of her arms, darting under a parked car. She doesn’t even notice. Her eyes are fixed on the mansion, wide and unblinking. I wonder if she’s seen something.

My alarm buzzes on the nightstand, shrill and oblivious, but I silence it without looking and start getting ready for school. The house is silent, almost too silent. When I go downstairs, my breakfast is already on the dining table, like always.

I pick at the toast, chewing slowly while the red and blue lights dance against the wall. The Silva family has always fascinated me. Their garden wilts with perfect symmetry, as though even the decay has been carefully arranged.

There’s something about the way their house settles after dark—not with the gentle sigh of old timber, but with a patient, listening stillness.

The thought of school feels absurd against the backdrop of sirens outside, but technically I still have half an hour before I need to leave, which is plenty of time to indulge in some casual neighborhood espionage.

Outside, the air is damp and chilly, the kind of morning that makes you wonder why humans didn’t just evolve thicker blankets instead of alarm clocks. Across the street, the cops are still busy doing their “serious cop things”—flashlights, radios, the whole bit. Nobody notices me drifting closer, like the world’s least competent spy.

Mrs. Patterson is still standing on her porch, barefoot. Maybe she forgot to wear slippers. Or forgot that the cat wasn’t hers.

I lean against the hedge by the Silva mansion and pretend I’m checking my phone. The gate is open.

The whole place looks like it finally decided to breathe after years of holding its breath. The front door hangs open, its dark wood etched with delicate carvings—curling ivy, thorned roses, and shapes that almost look like hands if you stare too long.

Shrrrkk… shrrrkk…

A faint scraping sound comes from inside. Like furniture being dragged across the floor.Or maybe a raccoon with ambition.

Shrrrkkkk…

I freeze, my thumb hovering uselessly over the dark phone screen.

The sound comes again—slow, deliberate, as though whatever is inside isn’t rushing. It knows it has all the time in the world.

I lean slightly, trying to see inside, but from that angle the doorway reveals nothing but shadow. At the gate, one of the officers shifts, glancing over his shoulder toward the mansion.

The silence stretches, thick and unnatural. The officer frowns, mutters something under his breath, then presses a hand to the earpiece in his ear.

I should walk away.

Mrs. Patterson suddenly laughs. Not the sweet old-lady laugh I sometimes hear when she’s gossiping with her sister on the porch. This laugh is cracked and thin. She isn’t looking at the cops anymore. She’s looking directly at me.

Her bare toes curl against the damp concrete. Her eyes are watery but unblinking, and in the stillness she whispers something.

I can’t hear the words. But my skin prickles as if she said them directly into my ear.

The officer at the gate stiffens and looks toward the doorway. His hand drifts toward his holster.

For a heartbeat, everything is still.

Then the officer’s eyes sweep the street—and land squarely on me.

“You there,” he calls, his voice sharp but not unkind. “This isn’t a place for kids. Go on—get to school.”

Heat rises to my face. I fumble with my phone like it’s suddenly become useful, nod quickly, and step back from the hedge. His gaze lingers a second longer, measuring me, before he turns back to the yawning doorway of the mansion.

I force myself to walk, my sneakers crunching on the damp pavement, each step louder than it should be. Behind me, the radios squawk, but I don’t look back. I’m supposed to be going to school, supposed to care about history quizzes and assignments.

At the corner, I hesitate. My school is to the left. But something pulls me right.

I see a man.

A figure in a dark coat, too heavy for spring, slipping between the trees at the edge of the neighborhood. No hesitation, no glance back at the police cars or the flashing lights. Just a steady, deliberate pace into the woods, like he belongs there.

I stop breathing for a second.

The woods behind the Silva mansion aren’t exactly friendly. Everyone in the neighborhood knows they go on for miles—a tangle of pine and shadows, with paths that never seem to lead the same way twice. Kids tell stories about them, about voices in the trees and lights that don’t belong to fireflies. Nobody actually goes in there. Not alone.

But the man doesn’t even slow down. He disappears past the treeline, swallowed by green and gray.