CHAPTER 2
Chapter 2
The rain lingered long after school had ended.
It wasn't the torrential kind that lashed against rooftops with violent intent. It was softer than that—an incessant drizzle that blurred distant buildings into pale silhouettes and left the asphalt glistening beneath the dim afternoon sky.
Classes had passed in a haze.
If anyone had asked me what Mr. Benson taught during Mathematics or what chapter Mrs. Evelyn Carter had assigned in Literature, I wouldn't have been able to answer. My mind had wandered too often, drifting back to the empty chair at our dining table... to the locked study at the end of the hallway... to my father's smile trapped forever inside a wooden frame.
"Robert!"
I blinked.
CJ snapped his fingers in front of my face before raising a perfectly shaped brow. "You planning to graduate in another universe?"
A few students nearby laughed.
"I heard every word," I lied.
"No, you didn't."
"I did."
"What did I just say?"
"...Something intelligent."
His lips curled into a grin.
"Wrong. I asked whether you were coming with us."
"Us?"
He stepped aside dramatically.
Standing a few feet away were four students I had noticed throughout the day but never spoken to.
The tallest among them folded his muscular arms across his chest. His neatly pressed uniform looked as though it had never known a wrinkle.
"Mason Cole," he introduced himself, his voice measured and firm. "Class prefect."
His handshake was strong but brief.
Beside him stood a girl clutching three books against her chest. Her dark curls framed an oval face sprinkled with faint freckles. There was an inquisitive sharpness behind her hazel eyes, as though she were constantly observing details everyone else ignored.
"I'm Naomi Reyes," she said with a polite smile. "School newspaper."
CJ leaned toward me and whispered loudly enough for everyone to hear.
"Translation: she'll probably write about us one day."
Naomi rolled her eyes.
"Only if you become interesting."
"Oh, that'll happen."
"I somehow doubt that."
The shortest member of the group laughed.
He was broad-shouldered, with expressive eyes and an unruly mass of curls that refused to stay flat no matter how often he pushed them back.
"Ethan Brooks," he said, pointing both thumbs at himself. "Professional comedian."
"No," Mason corrected.
"Unprofessional."
"See?" Ethan sighed dramatically. "This is the kind of emotional abuse I endure every day."
Even I couldn't suppress a chuckle.
The last person remained unusually quiet.
She stood slightly apart from the others beneath the shelter of the corridor roof, absentmindedly sketching inside a weathered notebook.
Long chestnut hair spilled over one shoulder, partially hiding her face.
CJ waved.
"Sophia."
She looked up slowly.
Her grey eyes met mine for only a second before she closed the notebook.
"...Hi."
She spoke so softly I almost missed it.
"She doesn't talk much," Ethan explained.
"Only when absolutely necessary."
Sophia shrugged one shoulder.
"I talk."
"You've spoken four words today."
"I've now spoken five."
That earned another round of laughter.
I found myself smiling more than I had in months.
Maybe grief wasn't something that disappeared.
Maybe it simply loosened its grip when you were around the right people.
"There's a café across the street," CJ announced, rubbing his palms together. "Their meat pies are life-changing."
"You say that about every café," Naomi muttered.
"Because food deserves appreciation."
"It deserves seasoning."
"It has seasoning."
"It has hope."
The conversation dissolved into playful bickering as we crossed the road together.
The café itself was modest, squeezed between an aging pharmacy and a tailor's shop whose faded sign had surrendered to years of relentless sunlight. Warm amber lights glowed behind fogged windows, inviting weary students inside.
The rich aroma of coffee, cinnamon and freshly baked pastries greeted us the moment the door opened.
An elderly woman behind the counter smiled.
"Back again, CJ?"
"You know me."
"I know your appetite."
She laughed before disappearing into the kitchen.
"I like her already," I murmured.
"Everyone likes Mrs. Eleanor."
CJ leaned closer.
"She's incapable of making bad food."
For nearly an hour we talked.
Not about ghosts.
Not about death.
Not about fathers.
Just ordinary things.
Football.
Teachers.
Embarrassing childhood stories.
Future dreams.
Ethan declared he would become the richest comedian in America.
Mason wanted to study law.
Naomi dreamed of becoming an investigative journalist.
Sophia quietly admitted she hoped to illustrate children's books one day.
CJ pointed dramatically at the ceiling.
"I'm going to own the greatest fashion company on Earth."
"You failed Fashion Design last term," Mason reminded him.
"It was a temporary misunderstanding."
"The misunderstanding being?"
"The examiner lacked vision."
Even Sophia laughed.
I watched them in silence.
They argued.
Interrupted each other.
Finished one another's sentences.
There was an effortless familiarity between them that made me feel like an outsider peering through someone else's window.
CJ noticed.
Without saying anything, he nudged an untouched plate toward me.
"You've barely eaten."
"I'm not very hungry."
"Liar."
"I had breakfast."
"You've been staring at that pie for ten minutes."
"...Has it really been that long?"
Naomi's expression softened.
"You don't have to tell us."
"Tell you what?"
"Whatever's weighing on you."
Silence settled around the table.
For a fleeting instant, I almost did.
I almost told them about the nights I woke from dreams I couldn't remember.
About the study.
About my father's unanswered questions.
Instead...
I smiled.
"I'm just tired."
No one challenged the lie.
But I could tell they didn't believe it.
The rain had finally stopped by the time we left.
Clouds drifted apart, revealing a bruised violet sky where the first stars cautiously emerged.
"I'll head this way," Mason said.
"See everyone tomorrow."
Naomi adjusted the strap of her bag.
"Don't forget Literature homework."
Ethan groaned so dramatically that a passing cyclist looked over in concern.
Sophia offered each of us a small wave before disappearing down another street.
CJ walked beside me for several minutes without speaking.
"You know," he finally said, shoving his hands into his pockets, "you're different from what I expected."
"Oh?"
"I thought you'd be... I don't know... scary."
I laughed.
"Scary?"
"People said you don't smile."
"I do."
"You did today."
He glanced at me.
"They also said your dad was... strange."
The words lingered between us.
I stopped walking.
CJ immediately regretted asking.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled. "You don't have to answer."
I stared at the pavement.
Tiny pools of rainwater reflected the fading evening.
"My father collected old books."
CJ remained silent.
"He believed there were things about the world people refused to understand."
"Were there?"
"I don't know anymore."
He nodded thoughtfully.
"My mum says every family has ghosts."
I frowned.
"You mean figuratively?"
"I hope so."
We both laughed.
When we reached the entrance to my street, CJ pointed toward the row of modest houses.
"So..."
"This is me."
"I'll see you tomorrow."
"If you don't disappear."
"I make no promises."
He grinned before jogging away.
I watched until he vanished around the corner.
Only then did I continue home.
The neighborhood had grown unusually quiet.
No children played outside.
No radios drifted through open windows.
Even the stray dogs that normally wandered the streets were nowhere to be seen.
A peculiar stillness hung in the air.
The kind that makes you instinctively lower your voice.
As I reached our gate, I noticed Mrs. Agnes Holloway standing on her porch across the street.
She was well into her seventies, wrapped in a thick knitted shawl despite the warmth lingering after the rain. Her silver hair was gathered into a neat bun, and deep lines creased her gentle face.
She smiled when she saw me.
"Robert."
"Good evening, Mrs. Holloway."
She nodded toward the house behind me.
"I saw your mother earlier."
"She went shopping."
"She's a strong woman."
"She is."
The old woman hesitated.
Then her smile faded.
"I knew your father."
"I know."
"He was a brilliant man."
Another pause.
"...Until he wasn't."
A chill traced my spine.
"What do you mean?"
Her cloudy eyes wandered toward the second-floor window of our house.
"The last few months before he died..." she whispered, "...he stopped looking like someone who slept."
She drew a slow breath.
"And sometimes..."
She lowered her voice until it was scarcely audible.
"...he would stand at that very window long after midnight."
"Doing what?"
Mrs. Holloway's gaze remained fixed on the glass.
"...Talking."
"To who?"
She looked back at me.
"I never saw anyone else."
Before I could ask another question, she quietly turned and stepped inside her house.
The front door clicked shut.
I stood alone beneath the fading light, unable to shake the feeling that something inside my home had been listening to every word.