"Damn it!"
Hans suddenly realized he had to go into the city. He'd left some errands unfinished before the move — small, lingering tasks that now gnawed at the back of his mind. He didn't want to leave the house. His body felt heavy, his soul even more. An hour and twenty minutes of travel, round trip, sounded like a punishment. But there was no escape.
He undressed slowly, letting his clothes fall to the floor as if each piece carried its own weight of guilt, and stepped into the shower. The water came out icy — liquid needles piercing his skin. He didn't bother turning on the heater; the day promised sunlight, and somehow, the cold felt more honest than the warm lie of comfort.
He soaped himself, washed his hair. The rhythm of the water against the tiles was steady, hypnotic. When he stepped out, a chill ran down his spine — the kind that drags more than cold along with it. A draft had slipped into the bathroom, even though the window — the same one he'd left open the night before to air out the room — was now closed. Perfectly sealed.
And for some reason, that felt far worse than if it had been open.
He dressed casually, leaving the leather jacket behind — he wouldn't need it anyway. It would just be a burden, and there was no space for it on the bike. For once, Hans wanted to feel free. He hadn't planned on going out at all, but maybe a short ride into the city wouldn't hurt after all the exhausting days of unpacking and settling into his new house.
Once ready, he slipped his house keys into the pocket of his old jeans, put on his helmet, and went outside to his motorcycle waiting in the driveway.
He reached the city.
Hans spent the entire day walking through the streets, moving from one store to another, eating nothing more than a cheese croissant and a cup of black coffee, resting for a while before continuing his errands.
At some point, the whole city seemed to freeze in time.
He was walking along one of the busiest streets downtown — usually packed — yet now, it was completely empty. The only thing he could hear was the wind whistling down the road, eerily human in tone.
He frowned, looking around.
Why did everything suddenly feel so strange?
This was his home. He'd lived in Maine his entire life. So why did the secondhand shop on the corner look unfamiliar? Why did Peevs' ice cream parlor near the park — where his mother used to buy him chocolate cones when she got a break from work — seem somehow foreign and wrong?
"Mm… this is weird. Maybe I just need some food. Hunger can make you see things that aren't there," he muttered under his breath.
He found a small restaurant and sat down. A waitress approached his table, smiling warmly as she took his order. When she turned to leave, Hans felt a strange rush — not desire exactly, but something unsettlingly close to it.
She reminded him of something — or someone — he couldn't quite place. A familiar softness in her tone, in the way she moved.
He shook his head, forcing himself to focus on the table, on the sound of clinking plates and muffled chatter. But the air between them had changed — it felt charged, almost electric.
The waitress glanced back over her shoulder, a playful smile curving her lips, as if she'd sensed his unease. For a brief moment, Hans forgot where he was. The world around him blurred, leaving only her gaze — magnetic and strangely knowing.
Then, just as suddenly, the moment passed.
She delivered his food, wished him a good meal, and disappeared among the tables. Hans exhaled, uncertain if what he'd just felt had even been real.
When he finished eating, she returned with the bill — and a small folded note tucked beneath it. Her name and number were written neatly in blue ink.
Hans smiled faintly, slipped the paper into his wallet, paid, and left the restaurant with a strange warmth lingering in his chest.
By 7:40 that evening, Hans was back at the Abernathy Mansion.
He sat outside, sipping a canned beer, enjoying the quiet and the fresh air as he read Elantris by Brandon Sanderson. He'd managed about twenty pages so far — not much, but a start. Ever since his mother's death, reading had been hard. But now, surrounded by silence and nature, he felt like maybe he could rebuild that lost habit.
He loved fantasy novels, and Sanderson was his favorite author. He owned almost every book, and one of these days, he promised himself, he'd organize them neatly in the new mansion library.
The night was cool and peaceful, accompanied only by the faint song of fireflies hidden somewhere deep in the woods. The breeze was cold, but not enough to make him sick.
Hans turned another page, completely absorbed — until something changed.
The air shifted.
The fireflies went silent.
The wind died down.
Every sound vanished.
Hans froze, the book half-open in his hands. His skin prickled, his chest tightened.
"Strange…" he whispered.
The night itself seemed to be holding its breath.
And in that heavy silence, something unseen was watching.