Aubrey stood at the edge of the sidewalk, staring at the house.

  The air was cool and still, carrying a faint mix of cut grass and dust.

  Somewhere down the block, a lawnmower droned distant, dull, almost like a memory.

  The paint on the porch rail had begun to peel, curling in thin strips that trembled when the breeze passed.

  Aubrey’s eyes stayed fixed, unblinking.

  Behind her, Jamie stood a few feet back on the cracked pavement, hands tucked into her jacket pockets.

  Neither of them said anything.

  Aubrey stood there a moment longer, her gaze never leaving the house.

  “This is it, I guess,” she said quietly.

  Silence settled between them, the kind that didn’t need to be filled.

  A few seconds passed before Jamie finally spoke.

  “Yeah…” she murmured, her breath faint in the cool air.

  Aubrey turned halfway toward Jamie, her hand brushing against her coat pocket.

  “I’m actually a little nervous,” she admitted, a small, uneasy smile tugging at her mouth.

  Jamie glanced up, the wind shifting a few strands of her hair.

  “I would be too,” she said softly.

  Aubrey stepped forward, gravel crunching softly beneath her boots.

  Her fingers curled into a fist, the ring pressing hard into her palm as she walked toward the house.

  Each step felt heavier than it should’ve, like the air itself thickened the closer she got.

  Behind her, Jamie stayed silent, the wind brushing faintly through her hair.

  In her head, a voice — sharp, distant — echoed through the years.

  “Stay away!”

  Her breath hitched. Another memory followed, softer this time.

  “Great job, Aubrey! Better drawing than me, haha.”

  Arthur’s laughter — faint, warm, gone too soon.

  By the time she reached the porch, the world had gone still again.

  Aubrey stopped in front of the door, staring at the handle.

  Pure silence, other than the wind whistling through the trees.

  Jamie stepped up beside her, eyes fixed forward.

  Aubrey reached for the handle — her fingers barely brushed the metal when the memory hit.

  The cold came first.

  She was back in her old bedroom — frost creeping along the glass of a broken window, her breath clouding in the air.

  Arthur sat beside her on the bed, wordless, draping his heavier jacket over her shoulders.

  She remembered the weight of it — the warmth, the way he’d smiled like everything would be fine.

  The sound faded.

  Aubrey blinked and was back on the porch, her hand frozen mid-reach.

  She pulled it back, eyes wide, a flicker of panic breaking through the calm.

  Jamie didn’t move. Still staring forward, her voice came low and steady.

  “It’s okay, Brooke. This is your moment.”

  Aubrey drew in a deep breath, shaky but sure, then lifted her hand and knocked on the door.

  A few seconds passed. Nothing.

  Aubrey knocked again, lighter this time — the sound dull against the wood.

  After a moment, the door creaked open a few inches.

  A woman in her late twenties, hair pulled back, eyes cautious but kind, peeked through the gap.

  “Oh—hey,” she said softly. “How can I help you, ladies?”

  Aubrey forced a small, nervous smile.

  “Hey,” she began, voice a little higher than usual. “I’m Aubrey, this is my friend Jamie.”

  The woman blinked, her eyes shifting between them.

  “I know this might sound a little odd,” Aubrey went on, swallowing once. “But… does an Arthur live here?”

  Jamie’s gaze lingered on Aubrey — a faint tension in her face, lips pressed together, eyes searching.

  The woman at the door hesitated, her fingers still resting on the edge of the frame. The guarded look in her eyes softened.

  “Arthur hasn’t lived here in a while…” she said quietly, studying them.

  Then, after a brief pause, her brow knit just slightly.

  “What did you say your name was again?”

  Aubrey’s shoulders lowered a little, her voice dipping.

  “Oh…” she said, the word coming out softer than she meant.

  “I’m Aubrey. Aubrey Archer.”

  Her hand came up, scratching the back of her head as she searched for the right words.

  “He’s my brother. I haven’t seen him since he was taken into the system… a long time ago.”

  The woman’s eyes softened. Her hand rose slowly to her cheek, thumb brushing just beneath her eye.

  “Oh… sweetie,” she said gently, voice wavering with sympathy. “I’m sorry, but…”

  She hesitated, glancing between them before her tone shifted warmer, more careful.

  “Do you want to come inside, actually?”

  Aubrey glanced toward Jamie.

  Jamie’s head was lowered, her eyes fixed on the porch boards, a lock of hair slipping forward, not quite looking up.

  Aubrey nodded lightly. “Yeah, sure,” she said, stepping forward. “Are you his wife or… other family?”

  She followed the woman inside, the sound of their footsteps soft against the hardwood. Jamie closed the door and trailed a few steps behind, quiet, her gaze flicking between the walls and floor.

  The woman led them toward the living room, her hand brushing absently along the doorway as she spoke.

  “Yes,” she said after a moment’s pause, then sighed softly. “Arthur… was my best friend. For many years. Since high school.”

  Aubrey smiled softly at that, the warmth in the lady’s voice disarming her for a moment.

  “My name’s Mikayla,” the woman said, lowering herself into a worn armchair by the window. The fabric creaked faintly as she settled in. She looked up again, her expression gentle but curious.

  “And who’s your friend here?” she asked, eyes flicking toward Jamie.

  Jamie lifted her head, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

  “Sorry,” she said quietly. “I’m Jamie. I don’t have any relation here, I… just wanted to come with.”

  Mikayla nodded, her expression softening. “That’s alright,” she said. “It’s good she’s got someone with her.”

  Aubrey lowered herself into the chair across from Mikayla, the cushion giving a faint sigh beneath her.

  Jamie stayed standing, her hands clasped loosely in front of her waist, gaze drifting between them but saying nothing.

  The room was still. The faint tick of a wall clock filled the space between their breaths.

  Aubrey’s eyes wandered, tracing the walls lined with framed photographs: a man standing beside children at charity drives, handshakes with city officials, plaques for community awards.

  One frame caught the light, the glass glinting faintly.

  She pointed toward it, her voice barely above a whisper.

  “Is that Arthur?”

  Mikayla’s gaze followed Aubrey’s hand to the photo. Her shoulders softened, and for a long moment, she didn’t speak.

  When she finally did, her voice came low, careful, almost tender.

  “Honey…” she said. “Arthur’s been gone nearly two years now.”

  She paused, eyes dimming. “I’m so sorry.”

  Aubrey didn’t move.

  Her eyes stayed fixed ahead, not on Mikayla, not on the photo, but somewhere past both.

  The sound of the ticking clock felt louder now, each second dragging through the silence.

  Aubrey’s eyes glazed over, the shine catching in the light.

  Her lips parted, but for a second, nothing came out.

  When she finally spoke, her voice was thin, trembling at the edges.

  “Two years ago?” she breathed.

  Her gaze flicked toward the photo again, then back to nothing.

  “All this time… just here?”

  Mikayla’s expression broke, her eyes glistening as she gave a slight, unsteady nod.

  “Yeah…” she whispered. Her voice caught. “My love…”

  She swallowed hard, trying to steady herself, but the words still fractured as they came.

  “He took his own life.”

  Her breath shuddered out in a small, broken sob. She brought a trembling hand to her mouth, tears slipping free as the room went still again.

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  Aubrey didn’t move.

  Her eyes stayed wide, unfocused, as if the room itself had faded around her.

  Jamie stood behind her, hands clasped tightly, her stare fixed on Aubrey, waiting, helpless.

  After a long, brittle silence, Aubrey’s voice finally came.

  Barely a whisper.

  “…Why?”

  Mikayla didn’t answer.

  Her breath hitched, then broke a soft, uneven sob slipping out before she could hold it back.

  Her shoulders trembled as she pressed a hand to her face, crying quietly into her palm.

  The sound filled the small, human, and raw room, echoing in the still air where words had no place to live.

  Aubrey just sat there, frozen in the quiet, eyes fixed on nothing.

  Aubrey blinked, her voice barely holding steady.

  “I’m… I’m sorry, Mikayla. I didn’t mean it like that.” She crossed her legs and arms.

  The words fell softly into the space between them, swallowed by the quiet.

  Mikayla reached behind her, grabbing a dry rag from the table. She dabbed at her cheeks, taking a shaky breath before managing a small, wavering smile.

  “Oh… It’s okay,” she said quietly. “I just haven’t thought about it in a while.”

  Jamie shifted her weight slightly, the floor creaking under her shoes.

  Mikayla sniffled, clearing her nose before letting out a small, uneven laugh.

  “Please, sit down, Jamie, you’re making me nervous.”

  Jamie crossed the room, her movements careful.

  She sat beside Aubrey, keeping her posture straight, her tone still calm and measured.

  Mikayla drew in a soft breath, her voice trembling as she spoke.

  “Arthur was the nicest man I’ve ever known,” she said quietly. “I met him back in high school.”

  She wiped at her eyes again, catching the tears with the rag, and sniffled softly.

  Aubrey exhaled slowly, her voice steady but low.

  “Who was he?” she asked, not faintly, just quietly, as if the words carried more air than sound.

  Mikayla’s lips curved into a soft, distant smile.

  “The closest thing to an angel you’d ever meet,” she said.

  A quiet pause hung between them, the kind that felt too fragile to break.

  Mikayla finally spoke again, her voice gentler.

  “He was a little different when I first met him,” she said with a soft chuckle. “A little quiet… nervous, even.”

  She sniffled once more, then set the rag down on the table beside her, folding it neatly with her fingers.

  Aubrey turned slightly toward Jamie, her eyes glassy but calm.

  “You knew, didn’t you?” she said softly.

  Jamie’s eyes shifted toward Aubrey but never met hers.

  “If you knew the truth,” she said softly, “I knew you’d never come.”

  Her voice wavered once before settling into a whisper.

  “I’m sorry, Brooke.”

  Aubrey touched Jamie’s hand and gave her a faint smile.

  Mikayla glanced between them, brow furrowing slightly.

  “Brooke?” she asked, confused.

  Aubrey blinked, realizing. “It’s my middle name,” she said softly.

  Mikayla’s expression softened into a faint smile. “Nothing wrong with it,” she said, her voice gentle. “It’s a beautiful name… but Aubrey fits you better.”

  She smiled again — the kind that comes with closed eyes, brief but sincere.

  Aubrey’s faint smile lingered for a moment before she cleared her throat, eyes drifting toward the wall of framed photos.

  “So… he ran a charity?” she asked quietly.

  Her gaze moved over the plaques and certificates. She leaned forward a little, squinting at one of them.

  “A community achievement?”

  Mikayla nodded softly, her hands folding in her lap.

  “Yes,” she said. “I helped him, but it was definitely his responsibility — his idea.”

  A small, wistful smile touched her face. “He was so passionate about it too.”

  Aubrey rose slowly from her chair, drawn toward the wall of photos and framed certificates.

  Her eyes moved over them one by one — smiling faces, charity banners, school backdrops frozen in time.

  As Aubrey studied the display, Mikayla’s voice carried gently from behind her.

  “He got a lot of inspiration from high school,” she said. “The faculty there loved him.”

  Aubrey turned back toward her, brow faintly furrowed.

  “What high school was it?” she asked.

  Mikayla gestured vaguely toward the window.

  “The one just down the street,” she said. “Couple blocks over.”

  Mikayla’s eyes drifted toward one of the framed photos, a faint laugh escaping through her lingering sadness.

  “He was so different when I first met him,” she said softly. “So shy—he could barely talk to me at first.”

  She shook her head, smiling at the memory. “It’s like he was performing every time we had a conversation, trying to say what he thought people wanted to hear.”

  Her smile faded just a little. “But then, all of a sudden… he changed. It was like he became a completely different person.”

  Aubrey’s brow knit, her voice quiet but edged with curiosity.

  “What do you mean, different?”

  Mikayla drew in a slow breath, her hands tightening slightly in her lap.

  “He was a troubled boy,” she said gently. “Had a lot of problems with the foster system.”

  Her gaze drifted toward the window, eyes distant.

  “But the staff at the high school… they must’ve really turned his life around.”

  A small, melancholy smile touched her lips. “He was so thankful to them.”

  Aubrey nodded slowly, her throat tight.

  “Oh,” she managed, the word barely audible.

  She turned back toward the wall of photos — Arthur’s smile caught in frozen moments, surrounded by faces that weren’t hers.

  Her eyes glistened. “He was a great brother,” she said softly, tears beginning to form again.

  Mikayla’s voice trembled as she spoke.

  “He was scared his father would find him,” she said, wiping at her cheek. “He never wanted that to happen.”

  Her lip quivered before she managed a small, broken smile.

  “But he talked about you, Aubrey. He loved you. He really did.”

  Aubrey turned, her voice cracking at the edge.

  “Then why didn’t he ever try to find me?” she asked, her eyes glassy. “I’ve been looking for him for years…”

  She looked back toward the framed photo on the wall — Arthur’s frozen smile staring past her, unchanging.

  Her voice fell to a whisper.

  “Seems I’ve been chasing a ghost,” she said, pausing. “Or at least the idea of one.”

  Jamie finally spoke, her voice low but certain.

  “The homeless… children in poverty… school lunches,” she said, eyes fixed on one of the photos. “He did a lot.”

  She looked toward Mikayla, managing a faint smile.

  “I bet he was a great man.”

  Mikayla met her gaze and nodded, her expression warm but heavy with memory.

  Aubrey stood there, lost in the stillness—

  Then clang.

  The sharp chime of a grandfather clock echoed through the room.

  She flinched, shoulders tensing before realizing where it came from.

  Mikayla gave a small laugh, brushing a tear from her cheek.

  “That’s my old grandfather clock,” she said gently. “Sorry if it spooked you.”

  A moment passed, then she added softly, “Do you ladies want some lunch? Or maybe some brownies?”

  Mikayla pushed herself up from the chair, smoothing her shirt.

  Jamie followed suit, her voice breaking the quiet.

  “I’d love some,” she said with a slight grin. “This little town’s got too many holes in the wall to dive into.”

  Mikayla chuckled as she headed toward the kitchen.

  “You must be a city girl, huh? Never had real cooking before,” she teased over her shoulder.

  Jamie smiled faintly, following her in.

  Aubrey stayed behind, still standing near the photographs—her gaze lingering on Arthur’s face.

  Mikayla paused halfway to the kitchen, turning slightly toward Aubrey.

  Her voice softened.

  “It may not mean much,” she said, “but upstairs—there’s an office room. I haven’t touched it in months. It was Arthur’s.”

  She offered a gentle smile. “You’re welcome to look around… maybe you’ll learn a little more about who he was… first door on the right when you go up.”

  Aubrey hesitated, her eyes flicking toward the staircase, then back to Mikayla.

  “Yeah,” she said quietly. “Thanks, Mikayla.”

  Mikayla nodded once, the kind of nod that said take your time, before disappearing into the kitchen.

  Aubrey stood still for a moment, eyes fixed on the staircase.

  From the kitchen came Jamie’s voice—“So, do you guys have bears out here or what?”

  Mikayla laughed, the sound carrying softly through the house.

  “Bears? What, have you been reading fairy tales?”

  Aubrey’s lips twitched faintly, almost a smile.

  Then she drew a slow breath, placed her hand on the railing, and started up the stairs—each step creaking under her weight as the voices below faded into the hum of the house.

  At the top of the stairs, Aubrey turned the corner—and stopped.

  A single framed drawing hung on the hallway wall, slightly tilted from age.

  She stepped closer, her breath catching as her fingers brushed the glass.

  The crayon lines were uneven, the colors faded—but she recognized them instantly.

  A sun drawn too big.

  A house leaning to one side.

  Two stick figures, holding hands.

  Her voice slipped out in a breath.

  “Oh my god…”

  It was hers.

  A drawing she’d made when she was just a kid.

  Arthur had taken it with him.

  Aubrey’s hand rose to her mouth, stifling the small sound that escaped her.

  She turned slowly, the floor creaking beneath her steps as she made her way down the short hall.

  At the end waited a closed door, paint slightly chipped around the handle.

  Her fingers trembled as she reached for it—then, with a careful push, the door eased open.

  The faint smell of paper and dust drifted out, still and untouched.

  Aubrey stepped inside, the floor sighing beneath her.

  The room was small, cluttered with traces of someone who once lived here.

  A few old hobbies sat on the shelves—model pieces, brushes, a cracked camera lens—each coated in a soft layer of dust.

  Her eyes fell to the desk. Papers were scattered across it, some stacked, some curling at the corners.

  Beside them, a cup overflowed with pencils and folded scraps—quick sketches, rough lines.

  She sat down, fingers brushing over the drawings as she began riffling through them one by one.

  Faces, trees, quiet streets, some unfinished, some barely more than outlines.

  They were simple, imperfect… but warm.

  Aubrey sifted through the sketches, her thumb smudging a line of graphite.

  One drawing caught her—a lopsided dog with stick legs and an oversized head.

  She couldn’t help but let out a soft laugh, the sound breaking through the still air.

  “You tried, at least,” she whispered, smiling faintly through the ache in her chest.

  She pulled the drawer open; it stuck for a moment before giving way with a small groan.

  Inside, among old pens and paper scraps, sat a single folded envelope.

  Aubrey tilted her head, brow furrowing.

  She reached in carefully, the paper rough against her fingers, the edges yellowed with time.

  On the front, drawn in fading ink, was a small heart — simple, uneven, almost childlike.

  She stared at it for a long moment, her breath catching in her throat.

  Aubrey lifted the envelope, careful not to tear it.

  The flap peeled open with a faint crackle, the paper dry from age.

  She unfolded the sheet inside.

  At the top, written in red ink, were two neat characters — “A+!” — circled twice.

  Her eyes darted down the page, scanning the opening lines.

  It looked like an essay or a letter, maybe something for school — the handwriting uneven, familiar.

  Too anxious to keep reading, she flipped it over, her hands trembling just slightly.

  Her hand rose to her mouth, trembling, as her eyes filled with tears.

  The paper fluttered slightly in her grasp, the ink faint but legible beneath the crease marks.

  It read —

  Dear Dreamer,

  I still think about it, even now as I sit between two fields. Am I still dreaming? I see you, but do you see yourself hiding in plain sight? When I look up I see stars, but you describe clouds. Is this how you feel, Paul? You know what’s real to me? The way the wind filters through my hair. The sound of crickets playing their favorite song.

  Believe me, if what you think is real is only what you want others to see or hear, it’s not real to you. Who you are is who you’ve always been, and that’s what people will remember as you. If you feel as if you’re nearing your end on this earth, I ask you to spend one more day. Not for the sake of finding your purpose, but if you can help someone else’s light stay on — maybe you’ll find your soul in the process.

  I like to think the only question that ever matters in life is: when death comes for your soul… will you ask him how he found you?

  – Mr. Gates

  The paper trembled in her hands, the words swimming through the blur of her tears.

  Her lips parted, but no sound came — just a small, uneven breath.

  The room felt distant now, the edges softening, the ceiling slowly fading to white.

  A teardrop falls from her face, staining the letter right next to ‘Mr Gates’.