Walls Between Us

32 | trust

you guys are so not ready for the end!
it's the best ending I have ever written.

keep interacting with the story with your comments and I'll keep posting new updates!

✩

C A R T E R

"Where are you?"

Dawson's tone is full of worry. I can picture him fisting his hair in frustration, and then sighing in relief when I receive his call. I left the penthouse before he returned. He must have thought I did something crazy.

Standing by the door of Gretchen Greens, Apartment 124, I am enchanted by the numbers encrusted in a fake gold metal curving.

"I'm home," I answer him with a stoic edge to my voice.

"I'm home too and I can't see you here, Carter. Where are you?"

"I have many homes, Dawson." I am currently only standing by the door of one. "Have some rest. I'm safe. Will be back soon."

"Carter—"

I cut the call, putting the phone back into the inner pocket of my suit. It is too early in the morning but when it comes to home, I am unfortunate to not have a curfew anymore.

When we are kids, we believe curfews are just our parents' way to make us feel out of control. Once we grow up, we begin to crave those very rules because adulthood comes with nothing but struggles. Coming home on time is one of the things about my childhood that I miss the most.

Gulping down my hesitation, I lift a hand, touching the cold bell and pushing the switch thrice.

It is breaking dawn. I wonder if the occupants of the apartment are even awake yet. I had to bribe the security outside to be able to get in. Once he saw my business card though, he let me in without a second word from me.

'She keeps talking of you.' — he said as he let me in — 'I feel like I already know you, boy.'

The door opens and inside, a middle-aged man's face is the first I see. He has a round face, grey hair, and small eyes but looks toned and well-built for his age. Dressed in a sleeping robe with black patches under his eyes, he doesn't open the door entirely, just parts it enough to look at me.

He moves his hands in front of him, gesturing to me with his fingers.

One of our clients used to be a man devoid of hearing and speaking. Grandpa had suggested I learn sign language before we began our meetings with him.

This man seems to be one with special skills too.

Who are you? What do you need? — he gestures with his hands.

He weaves his eyebrows together as if he is waiting for me to understand and tell him that I don't speak his language. His lips are pressed to a thin line as he taps a foot on the floor.

Is she here? — I use my hands too to sign him.

His eyes flicker with a bright look. I can see he is surprised to see me use sign language. My client used to say that there are only a few people who ever take the effort to learn their language. It is always them who are expected to fit in first.

Who do you want?

My aunt — I continue — My Aunt, Melody.

He blinks at my answer. The door parts a little more as he lets go of the knob.