Chapter 1
The kind of sky that makes people uneasy never bothered me. But then again, I stopped expecting comfort from the world a long time ago.
“Flight 4072 boarding group A, flight 4072 boarding group A for departure to Lawrence. Please line up in a single-file line and have your ticket out and ready to scan. If your ticket is not out, you will be sent to the back of the line.”
The announcement stabbed through the terminal with a mechanical cheerfulness, shrill against the dull hum of rolling luggage and quiet frustration. I stood, slid my phone into my jacket pocket, and adjusted my scarf like armor.
“Geeze,” someone behind me muttered, “do they all hate their jobs?”
“Excuse me?” another voice replied, more shocked than offended.
“The employees here. Everyone I’ve talked to has a stick up their butt or something.”
“Well, you can definitely tell they’ve said their lines about a thousand times over. They’re probably losing their minds.”
“I’ll say.”
I didn’t turn around, but I smirked—quietly agreeing. There was something off about today. Not just the airport, not just the brittle air or the grayness outside pressing against the terminal windows like a held breath. It was everything. The last seven days had been blanketed in clouds like someone upstairs had draped the whole state in mourning cloth.
And maybe that’s why I liked it.
California wasn’t meant to wear gray, but I preferred it that way. There’s something about gloom that forces you to sit with your thoughts. For most people, that’s terrifying. For a writer? It’s like the sky finally agrees with you.
When I was younger, rainy days meant stories. Before streaming services and endless feeds, we made up our own worlds. I’d sit with my brother—twin, in age and spirit—and we’d take turns inventing plots, testing each other’s limits, daring the dark to come closer. One of us would always win, the other would always be a little spooked. That’s how you know the story’s good.
The loudspeaker blared again. “Now boarding all groups for Flight 4072 to Lawrence.”
I grabbed my small carry-on and joined the line.
“So do you have family in Lawrence?” the girl from earlier asked, pushing her way into step beside me.
“I’m visiting my sister,” I lied.
“Ticket, please.”
The attendant—mid-40s, cold, her smile an exhausted rumor—snatched my boarding pass and scanned it.
She lifted the speaker without looking at me. “Please have your tickets out and ready. The more prepared you are, the faster we can load the plane.”
She handed it back, not quite meeting my eyes. “Have a nice flight.”
Her mouth pinched like she wanted to smile, but couldn’t commit to the lie.
FLASHBACK — Two Years Earlier
The hospital hallway was colder than it should’ve been. I kept telling myself that, like maybe I could blame the chill for the goosebumps, the tightness in my throat, the way my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
I had just turned the corner when I heard them laughing. My brother and that boy—Micah, I think—laughing about some dumb inside joke only seventeen-year-old boys would find hysterical. His voice came first, rising above the hospital beeps and the soft padding of nurses’ shoes.
“He’s gonna kill me for putting that in the group chat, I swear,” he said.
My brother groaned dramatically. “You just don’t want him to know you suck at Photoshop.”
I froze. I wasn’t supposed to hear this. I was just supposed to drop off the meds and head back to the nurse’s station. But instead, I leaned against the wall, unseen. Listening. Wanting to memorize that sound. His laugh. I knew it wouldn’t be around much longer.
He died three weeks later. Wrong place. Wrong time. Some stranger with a gun and a grudge. And all I had left were echoes of his voice and the ache of what should’ve been.
Back to Present — Lawrence, Kansas
The plane landed with a bump. The sky was even grayer here.
The house sat at the edge of town, like a secret someone tried to forget. Wraparound porch, chipped paint, windows with curtains pulled too tight. I hadn’t even stepped inside and already I could tell—this place didn’t breathe right.
Mrs. Dobbins met me at the door. Thin. Still sharp, in her own way. Not old, exactly—but heavy with age, if that makes sense. Like she was holding too many years.
“This way,” she said. No hello. No welcome. Just a nod and a limp shuffle down the hall.
She didn’t mention the boy right away.
But I saw him.
In the living room, hunched over a notebook, earbuds in. Tall, a little too skinny. Dark hair. Haunted eyes. He looked up just long enough to see me before glancing back down again.
Teenage boys are usually easy to place: jock, loner, genius, problem. But him? He reminded me of someone I knew—once. Someone I buried. The resemblance wasn’t physical. It was something else. A presence. That unspoken “what if” behind his eyes.
Mrs. Dobbins noticed me staring.
“That’s Jordan,” she said. “He’s… quiet. Mostly. Don’t expect conversation.”
I nodded, but didn’t answer.
I was already having one—with a memory.
The door to the guest room creaked before I even touched it.
“You’ll be in here,” Mrs. Dobbins said, stepping aside. “It’s not much, but it’s clean. Closet sticks. Windows don’t open. Sheets are fresh.”
She hovered for a beat, fingers clamped tight around the doorknob. Like she wanted to say more—but didn’t trust her voice.
“Thank you,” I said, stepping in.
The room smelled like old furniture and lavender dryer sheets that hadn’t seen a dryer in years. A twin bed sat beneath the window, tight against the wall, like it was trying to make itself smaller. The wallpaper was the kind that used to be blue but had faded into a sickly gray.
I dropped my bag and turned to say something—anything—but Mrs. Dobbins had already gone.
The hallway was still.
I made my way back to the kitchen, half-hoping she’d be there making tea or explaining what the next few days would look like. But it was empty. No teapot. No idle conversation. Just the tick of the clock over the sink and the faint echo of music leaking from the boy’s earbuds.
I found Jordan still sitting on the living room floor, legs crossed, notebook in his lap. His pen paused when I entered, but he didn’t look up.
“I’m Delta,” I said softly.
No response.
“I guess I’m here to help out. You know—meals, meds, company.”
Still nothing. He kept writing, or maybe just pretending to.
I sat on the arm of the couch, careful to keep some space between us. “You write?” I asked, nodding toward the notebook.
Finally, a shrug. Barely perceptible. But it was something.
“My brother used to write,” I said. “Mostly short stuff. Pages and pages of beginnings. Endings were never really his thing.”
Jordan looked up then—quick, almost startled. His eyes met mine for a second too long.
“What happened to him?” he asked, voice low.
I blinked. “He passed away. Couple years ago.”
“Oh.”
And then just like that, he looked back down.
But I noticed something—his fingers were trembling. Not from fear. Not cold. Something more familiar. A kind of tension that lives in people who’ve lost things too early.
We sat in silence for a while, the clock ticking louder than it should have.
Later that night
I couldn’t sleep. The house creaked in long, aching sighs. Every few minutes, the wind would catch the back door just enough to make it rattle.
I pulled the blanket tighter and rolled over. My brother’s voice floated back, from some half-memory.
“You ever notice how houses groan like they’re keeping secrets?”
He’d said it during a power outage once. Flashlight under his chin, dramatic as hell.
But now, in this house? It didn’t feel like a joke. It felt like a warning.
At exactly 2:17 a.m., I heard it—footsteps. Not heavy. Not rushed. Just… deliberate.
I slipped out of bed, cracked my door open. The hallway was dark. But at the far end, near the back stairwell, I saw a shadow.
Jordan.
He was standing there barefoot, staring at the window like he was waiting for someone to appear on the other side. His notebook dangled from one hand.
I wanted to call out. Ask what he was doing. Ask if he was okay.
But something about the stillness of him—like he was carved out of the night—held me in place.
Then, just as quickly, he turned and walked away.
I shut the door softly behind me, the image of Jordan standing at the stairwell still etched in my mind. For a long moment, I just leaned against the frame, listening to the house breathe.
I thought about Noah—how he used to wander the halls at night too, back when everything inside him felt too big to carry in daylight. I’d catch him sitting in the kitchen at 2 a.m., pen in hand, eyes red, trying to write himself out of the grief he didn’t know how to name. We were just kids then. I didn’t know how to help him. I thought showing up was enough.
Maybe it wasn’t.
Maybe that’s the part I’m still trying to fix.
Now, years later, I was watching another teenage boy fold into himself with the same quiet ache, and for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like a stranger to it. Grief makes patterns of people. It leaves fingerprints behind in all the same places.
I sat down on the edge of the bed, rubbing my thumb along the scar on my wrist—a remnant of a day that still lived too loud in my chest.
