Billy's gone.
Ruby Buckley's world ended with him.
But Hawkins isn't done with her yet.
When strange deaths begin again, Ruby is pulled into the heart of the storm. Between shadowy nightmares, the town's newest outcast, and someone she was never s...
( songs for the chapter ) the painter on his way to work // clint mansell nina, o sia la pazza per amore // cecilia bartoli
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Ruby, Max, and Lucas stepped into what looked like the living room.
A wide, once-fancy couch sagged against the main wall, its cushions sunken and fabric frayed. A chessboard sat on the small table in front of it, elegant in design, or it would have been if the pieces weren't buried beneath decades of cobwebs.
"This place is a mess," Lucas muttered, nose wrinkling.
"Looks like it hasn't had any maintenance workers roaming around for, oh, thirty years," Ruby said, half-joking, her voice soft.
"It was probably too hard to get through the front door," Max added.
The room was dark, ruined, the slow cruelty of time etched into every surface. The red wallpaper had dulled to a murky orange, the intricate pattern nearly erased, peeling in long vertical tears. The single window was boarded from the outside, allowing only thin white slivers of daylight to cut through the planks.
Art pieces, once chosen with care by Mrs. Creel no doubt, hung crooked and dusty, dangling by loose nails.
A shiver ghosted down Ruby's spine as she stepped further in. Her eyes drifted upward, catching on the gold-framed painting above the couch. She approached it instinctively, brushing away a thin film of dust with the back of her hand. She studied the careful strokes, the way an artist had once poured days, maybe weeks, into capturing something meaningful on canvas.
It hit her then, unexpectedly hard: how sad these abandoned spaces were. How much life was left behind here.
How much was taken.
Because of Vecna.
The sight of the painting pulled her backward in time, straight to last summer.
The Art Institute of Chicago. She'd spent most of June interning there, and it remained one of the best experiences of her life.
Art had always spoken to her in ways other people hadn't understood, like it whispered in a language meant only for her.
She could stand in front of a single piece for hours, tracing every brushstroke, every shadow.
She thought of the museum's walls, lined with the works she loved. American Gothic, Picasso's The Old Guitarist, Van Gogh's The Bedroom, Renoir's Two Sisters. Pieces she adored with a devotion that bordered on reverence.
She remembered applying.
She remembered the acceptance letter.
Robin's reaction, the squeal, the bone-crushing hug, followed immediately by tears about being left alone in Hawkins for an entire month. How she declared she'd have to get another job now, because otherwise she'd die of boredom. Ruby could still laugh thinking about it. Robin's ability to ricochet between joy and despair in under a second was truly something.
