Harry.
He hadn't said the name out loud in years. He didn't dare to. Not even when his mother pretended nothing had happened. Not even when the neighbors still whispered about it when they thought he wasn't listening.
Harry.
His older brother.
Ethan didn't want to remember, but memories didn't ask for permission — they barged in.
---
Three years ago, Harry had been the loud one. The reckless one. The kind of brother who climbed rooftops just because he could, who rode his bike downhill with no brakes, who never backed away from a fight — even if it was three boys against one. Everyone in the neighborhood knew him. Admired him. Feared him.
And then one day… he was gone.
No note.
No goodbye.
No explanation.
No body.
Just gone.
The police said he had probably run away. The neighbors said he must've joined a gang. His father said nothing. His mother cried in secret. But Ethan… Ethan waited.
For weeks, then months.
At first, he believed Harry would come back. Any day. Any moment. He used to leave the porch light on for him every night.
But Harry never returned.
The world moved on — like it always does — but Ethan didn't. He stopped talking about it. Stopped asking questions. Stopped trusting anyone who said "you'll be okay."
And now…
Now the ball was back.
The ball that looked too clean.
The ball that had his brother's initial.
Harry had loved playing with rubber balls as a kid. He would bounce them against the walls until Ethan yelled at him to stop. He would toss them at Ethan's head when he wasn't looking. He would disappear for hours just to come back with a new one he "borrowed" from somewhere.
But this one — this one was impossible.
Ethan's grip tightened as he stood on the empty street, the past choking him like smoke.
Is this a coincidence? he thought desperately. Someone else could've dropped it. H could stand for anything. Henry. Hannah. Hugo. Anybody.
But deep down…
He didn't believe that.
---
Suddenly, he heard footsteps.
Ethan snapped out of his thoughts, shoving the ball into his pocket as he turned sharply — muscles tense.
A woman was approaching from across the street. Black coat. Head down. Carrying a grocery bag. She didn't look at him.
He exhaled.
Relax, he told himself. You're being paranoid.
He forced himself to move. To walk home. To pretend nothing was wrong. But every step felt heavier. The ball in his pocket felt like a brick. A weight dragging him backwards — to things he wasn't ready to face.
As he neared his house, he slowed.
The porch light was off.
His mother must've forgotten to turn it on again.
He stood there, staring at the switch beside the door.
He hadn't turned that light on in years.
Not since he stopped waiting.
But tonight… he reached for it.
His hand trembled.
He flicked it on.
The bulb flickered, struggling to decide whether to live or die. Then it stabilized — bathing the doorway in a weak, golden glow.
Ethan stared at it.
Then at the ball in his hand.
Then at the darkness beyond the street.
His voice was barely a whisper.
"Harry," he said. "If you're out there…"
He couldn't finish.
He didn't know what to say.
He just stood there — a boy with a ghost in his pocket.
And somewhere in the distance…
A faint tap.
Like rubber hitting pavement.
Once.
Twice.
Then silence.
Ethan froze.
His blood ran cold.
He turned.
Slowly.
The street was empty.
But the sound… it hadn't come from outside.
It had come from behind him.
Inside the house.