My hands shook as I zoomed in on the footage. The figure wore a hood, slipping up to Mickey’s window like they’d done it before. With one push, the heavy lock slid open. I scrubbed through the video — one minute, two, five. Darkness.
Then the figure slipped back out the way they’d come. For a split second, the porch light caught their face. Relief surged — finally, evidence for the police. My hand reached for my phone, then froze.
“Oh God. No…”
I knew that face.
I couldn’t make the call. Not yet.
The next morning, I stared at the frozen image on my laptop. Anger and something darker rose inside me. I glanced at Mickey still asleep, whispered, “I’ll fix this. I promise,” and called Mrs. Riley from next door to watch him.
I knew where the man would be. My best friend had mentioned seeing him at the bus depot weeks ago. Back then, I’d brushed it off. But that ghost from my past had just climbed into my son’s window.
The depot was nearly empty. Only one man in a faded gray hoodie pushed a mop across the tiled floor. He looked older, worn down.
“Ethan,” I said.
The mop clattered to the ground. Slowly, he turned — the same tired brown eyes, the small scar beneath his lip.
“Hi, Claire,” he whispered.
“You have some nerve,” I said, stepping closer. “Breaking into my yard. My home. Into Mickey’s room.”
His lips trembled. “I didn’t break in. I never touched him. I just… I wanted to see him.”
“You saw him through his window. Like some kind of stalker.”
“I know how it looks,” he murmured. “But I swear, I only watched from a distance. He was drawing one day and he waved. I waved back. That’s all.”
I stared at the man who had once been a chapter of my life I thought I’d buried forever — and realized that this wasn’t over. Not yet.
In that dimly lit depot, the truth hung between us, heavy and unfinished.
