THE RANDOM BALL
Chapter One — The Ball in the Gutter
Ethan had walked past that old drainage gutter a thousand times in his life — on his way to school, on grocery runs for his mother, or during the long, restless evening walks he took whenever the house felt too loud for his thoughts. It was nothing special. Just a rusted metal grate beside the cracked sidewalk, barely visible beneath overgrown weeds and candy wrappers.
But today, something was different.
As Ethan approached, he noticed a hint of white peeking out from the darkness below the grid. At first, he thought it was a crumpled paper or maybe a forgotten plastic cup. But when he crouched down and leaned closer, he froze.
It was a ball.
A perfectly clean, ordinary-looking white rubber ball. No scratches. No dirt. No brand logo.
As if someone had just placed it there a moment ago.
Ethan frowned. That didn't make sense. Everything else in that gutter was covered in grime — bottle caps, cigarette filters, soggy leaves — yet this ball looked untouched, like it had been dropped straight out of a toy store package.
He hesitated.
It's just a ball, he told himself. Why does it feel like it's watching me?
Glancing around to make sure no one was staring, he gripped the rusted grate with both hands and pulled. It screeched, protesting against years of neglect, but finally shifted enough for him to slip his hand through.
His fingers brushed against the smooth surface.
Cold.
Colder than it should be.
He immediately withdrew his hand. His pulse quickened. He wasn't sure why, but a strange unease stirred in his chest — like he had just touched something that didn't belong.
He swallowed.
Then reached again — this time grabbing it firmly.
He pulled the ball out and stood up, breathing hard.
It looked even more ordinary in the daylight. Plain white. Rubber. Bounceable. Weightless.
But Ethan didn't feel relief.
He felt watched.
He looked around again — scanning the empty street, the rows of silent houses, the flickering streetlamp that hadn't worked properly in months.
Nothing.
Just him.
And the ball.
His hand tightened around it involuntarily.
Then he noticed something he hadn't seen before.
Barely visible under the sunlight — almost invisible unless tilted just right — there was a faint, faded marking on one side of the ball. Not a logo. Not a crack.
A single initial.
"H."
Ethan stared at it.
He didn't know anyone whose name started with H.
But he knew someone who used to.
His stomach twisted.
No.
It was impossible.
He hadn't heard that name in three years.
He had tried not to hear it again.
But standing there on the empty street, the ball gripped in his hand like a ghost from the past, the memory he had buried came roaring back — sharper than ever.