I can see you

Chapter 37

The town was the kind that didn't show up on most maps. Tucked between two hills and a winding lake road, it looked like a painting someone forgot to finish. The houses were old but clean, paint chipped in a charming way. People left their doors unlocked and neighbors brought over extra bread.

The morning smelled like orange marmalade and toast. Sunlight slid in golden through gauzy curtains. The kind of light that made everything feel a little softer. A little slower. In the kitchen, a man hummed softly under his breath as he turned pancakes in a pan, the rhythm of it practiced and peaceful. The kettle let out a low steady whistle and he reached for it without urgency as the smell of peppermint tea filled the air.

There was a calendar on the fridge with hand-drawn stars on it. A school play circled in red. A smiley face sticker next to "Dentist - 4PM."

"Sweethearts," he called gently, " breakfast's ready."

Laughter echoed down the hallway two distinct voices answered one was bubbling and wild, the other groggy and still full of sleep. His wife appeared first, barefoot and warm in a robe, hair in a messy braid over her shoulder. She kissed his cheek and leaned into the counter.

She smiled when she saw the tray. "You always know just what I need."

He gave her a wink. "It's one of my many useless superpowers."

"God, that smells amazing."

He grinned. "Extra blueberries. You've had a week."

She smiled, tired but grateful. "You're too good to me love."

From the other room their daughter yelled, "No fair! He got more syrup!"

"Equal syrup rights!" the man declared, plating the pancakes like a peace offering. He slid the dishes in front of them with a dramatic bow.

"Thank you, Chef Dad, your pancakes are the best!" their son said through a mouthful.

"Don't speak with your mouth full," he replied gently and the boy grinned wider.

The evening was golden and quiet, the kind of summer dusk that made everything feel like a storybook ending. The backyard was blooming with late spring flowers, dahlias and marigolds in clustered beds, a tire swing swaying gently in the breeze.

The girl practiced cartwheels and the boy, ever the quieter one, lay sprawled under the maple tree with a notebook and a pencil, sketching shadows on the grass. Their father sat on the porch swing with his wife, sipping coffee. His wife leaned into him, barefoot and laughing at something small and silly.

"Promise me," she said, "we'll grow old right here."

He looked down at her. Her hair was darker than usual. The way she wore it, the way she laughed, it reminded him of someone. Someone from a long, long time ago. A boy who had trusted too easily. A girl who had never stood a chance.

"I'm already old," he teased, brushing his knuckles over her cheek. "But yeah. I promise."

Their mugs clinked lightly. Her coffee had gone cold, but neither of them moved.

"You ever think we were made for this?" she asked softly.

He looked out at the children chasing fireflies across the lawn. "I do now," he said. "Every day."

That night while she read the kids to sleep he washed the dishes. The kitchen window was open, letting in the smell of honeysuckle and the soft hum of cicadas. The night was the kind you'd miss before it even ended.

He dried the last mug, hung the towel neatly and stepped out onto the porch. The stars were coming out. Crickets sang. A dog barked faintly from a few streets away.

"Dad?" There was a tug on his cardigan.

He looked down to see his son standing in in socks, holding something in both hands. It was a sheet of paper.

"Yes, bud?"

"I found this article for my school project."

The man took it gently and crouched to the boy's eye level.

"Anonymous Source Ties Man to Serial Killings - Two Suspects Dead in Apparent Suicide Pact."

The headline was blurry and bold. Beneath it, two figures stood silhouetted against a rooftop edge, just shadows, faceless and still.

"I'm writing about history from our town," the boy explained. "This seemed important. Were you around when this happened?"

The man studied it with an expression that was unreadable.

"Were you living here when that happened?" the boy asked again.

The man nodded slowly. "Not far from here, yes."

"Do you remember it?"

"A little. It was tragic."

"What happened?"

The man paused and then set the paper aside. "They said he was lost. That he couldn't tell the difference between hurting and healing anymore. And the girl? well, some people say she was trying to save him. Others say she was already gone."

The boy nodded solemnly as if trying to understand the weight of grief without ever having carried it.

"Do you think he felt sorry?" the boy asked.

"I think he felt something," the man said as they sat quietly, the crickets filling the spaces between their words.

Later, after everyone slept, the man stepped into the garage. It looked like any other garage, a dusty bike, storage bins, holiday decorations. But beneath a shelf in the far corner was a box, tucked behind a stack of paint cans. He opened it. Inside were files - worn folders, faded notes. Photos. A USB drive. An old camera.

And today, he added one more thing: his son's sketch. A child's drawing of the silhouetted rooftop scene from the article. He held it for a moment before placing it carefully inside. Then he shut the lid. Locked it and turned off the light.

The next morning, he went to the local bakery. Everyone knew his name.

"Morning, killan!" the woman at the register called.

He gave a friendly wave. "Morning. Just the usual."

"You got it. How are the kids?"

"Growing too fast."

She laughed. "You're one of the good ones."

He gave a modest shrug.

"Just lucky," he said.

He mowed the lawn. He brought flowers to his wife on their anniversary. He volunteered at the library twice a month.
He was just a kind man living a quiet life. No one ever asked why he had so few photos from his past or why his ID didn't quite match the hospital records from that time. Or how a man with no known extended family ended up in a town where no one remembered him arriving.

We kept looking for the monster in the dark. We never thought to check the man next door. While we avoided the dark, the monster waved from his porch.