---
Chapter 1 - The Sound of Nothing
The dead don't scream.
They just stop.
Ethan Cole stood in the doorway of his father's apartment, the key still hanging from the lock behind him. The early autumn air had followed him in—sharp, dry, and filled with the faint scent of rain-soaked leaves. The air inside was… heavier. Not stale, but too still, like the entire apartment had been holding its breath for hours.
And then there was the silence.
It wasn't the silence of a quiet neighborhood. It was the kind that settled over everything after the sound of life had been sucked out.
His fingers clenched unconsciously around the bag of groceries he had brought. Oatmeal. Milk. The cinnamon tea his dad liked. It felt absurd, holding them now.
He stepped in.
"Dad?"
Nothing.
His shoes made soft sounds on the floorboards as he walked further in. The blinds were drawn, casting the room in a film of pale, diluted gray. One of the table lamps in the living room was on—probably left that way all night. His father hated the dark.
Ethan found him in the recliner, head tilted back at an awkward angle, eyes closed.
No movement.
No breathing.
No sound.
The plastic bag slid from Ethan's fingers and hit the floor with a dull thud. A carton of eggs rolled out and cracked open, yolk leaking like something internal had spilled out.
He didn't move. Couldn't.
It wasn't shock, not entirely. It was something deeper. Like his brain refused to believe what his eyes were confirming.
Then came the sudden thunder of action—his hands fumbled for his phone, called 911, stumbled through words like not breathing, recliner, still warm maybe—he wasn't sure. Time bent.
Paramedics arrived. They were quick, quiet, clinical.
"Cardiac arrest," one said. "He went peacefully."
But Ethan couldn't buy it.
Because of the small things.
The coffee cup on the table was scrubbed too clean. The books on the shelf had been realigned. His father's glasses—normally tossed carelessly on the desk—were now neatly folded on top of a locked wooden box Ethan had never seen before.
And the air smelled faintly of vinegar and metal, like something acidic had been there and then erased.
They took the body. Told Ethan to rest. Gave him a pamphlet with funeral homes and hotlines for grief counseling. Said he's in a better place.
Ethan nodded. Thanked them. Closed the door.
Then turned and looked at the box.
It wasn't big. Old wood, iron edges, a worn combination lock. Five digits. No name.
The kind of thing that didn't belong in a tidy, simple apartment belonging to a retired math teacher.
He crouched down, traced his fingers over the lid. There were scratches near the lock—faint, but precise. Almost like someone had tried to open it recently. Or close it in a hurry.
Ethan stared at it for a long time.
Somewhere in the distance, the sky cracked open with thunder. The rain followed soon after, steady and unrelenting, like it had been waiting for a cue.
He sat down beside the box.
And for the first time in years, Ethan Cole didn't feel tired.
He felt something else.
Something like purpose.
Something like fire.
---
Next Chapter Preview: Ethan discovers a hidden compar
tment in his father's bookshelf and uncovers a photo that changes everything…