The air in Alex's house felt… wrong. It had felt wrong ever since his mother returned, but tonight, the wrongness didn't crawl over the walls—it spilled and seeped through them like a sickness.
He came home slower than usual, dragging his feet, his backpack sliding halfway down his arm as if his body couldn't bear its weight anymore. His eyes were sore from crying all the way back, and though he'd wiped his face furiously before stepping onto the porch, his skin was still blotchy, raw, like evidence he wanted to burn off.
The door opened before he even touched the knob. His mother stood there.
But she wasn't the same mother who had cornered him in his room with sharp eyes and a voice that slithered. She wasn't the suffocating storm that spat words about danger, unnaturalness, and shadows. She was smiling. Beaming. Her apron was dusted with flour, the faint smell of vanilla hanging in the air.
"Alex! You're back just in time. Dinner's ready."
