The town hadn't changed. Not really. Robert Lawson drove past the familiar streets, his hands tight around the steering wheel, the hum of the engine filling the silence. It had been seventeen years since he left, and now, after the death of his wife, he was back. Not by choice, but necessity—his parents' old house waiting like a silent witness to a life he thought he'd escaped.
In the back seat, William stared out the window, jaw tight, arms crossed. His small frame seemed heavier somehow, burdened by the grief neither of them had fully acknowledged.
"You killed her," William muttered without looking at him.
Robert's chest tightened. The words struck like a blade he hadn't seen coming.
"I didn't, Will," he said softly, his voice catching. "You know that."
"I know what you didn't do," William snapped, finally meeting his father's eyes. "But you weren't there. You weren't…" His voice broke. "…you weren't enough."
Robert swallowed. He wanted to reach out, to pull his son close, but the words were a chasm between them. He didn't know how to cross it.
The town came into view—a cluster of old brick houses, a tired main street, and the lake at the edge, dark and still. The place was quiet, too quiet. Too perfect. And that made him uneasy.
As they turned onto the lane that led to his parents' house, Robert couldn't shake the feeling that something was waiting—something he wouldn't be able to ignore. The shadows seemed to lean closer, whispering secrets long buried.
And maybe, just maybe, the town hadn't forgiven him for leaving.
—----------------------------------------------
The Lawson house looked smaller than he remembered, though the paint was fresh and the garden neat. Memories pressed against him—late-night talks with his parents, the smell of his mother's cooking drifting through the kitchen, his father's old armchair by the fireplace.
As he parked, a figure stepped out from the walkway. Familiar, smiling—but different. Taller, broader, a few more gray hairs. His old friend.
"Robert!" The man called, waving. At his side was a boy, maybe fifteen, clinging slightly to his father's hand. Robert's stomach tightened—he hadn't expected anyone to come, much less anyone he knew.
"Tom," Robert said, stepping out of the car. Tom had been his best friend growing up, the one who'd made the town feel like home. "You came…just the boy?"
Tom gave a small shrug, hiding a smile. "The others stayed home. School, soccer practice…you know how it is." He paused, his gaze flicking to William. "But I wanted someone here for you, for him."
William shifted uncomfortably beside his father, arms crossed tighter. Robert gave him a look, silently urging him to be polite.
Tom crouched to the boy's level. "Hey, Liam. Ready to help your dad show Robert around?"
The boy nodded, shy but curious. Robert watched the exchange and felt the weight of his own absence—years away, leaving him disconnected from this place and its people.
"Come on inside," Tom said, straightening. "You've got a lot to settle, and I've got a feeling this house has a few surprises waiting for you."
Robert nodded, his throat tight. The house, the town, the past—all of it seemed to be waiting. And somehow, he knew that returning wasn't going to bring peace. Not yet.
_____________________________
The door creaked as Robert pushed it open, the familiar smell of old wood and dust greeting him like an old friend—or a ghost. The house seemed smaller than he remembered, the echoes of past laughter and arguments still trapped in the corners.
"Wow… it hasn't changed a bit," Ethan muttered, looking around with wide eyes.
"Except for the paint," Robert said, forcing a smile. His gaze drifted to William, who stood silently behind him, arms crossed, jaw tight.
"Don't touch anything," William muttered under his breath, barely audible. Robert felt the sting of the words—his son's grief had hardened into blame, and nothing he said could reach it.
Tom clapped his hands together. "Well, let's give you a proper tour. Starting with your old room… or should we call it the attic these days?"
Robert followed, but his mind wandered. Every corner, every shadow, seemed to whisper something—memories, warnings, or maybe secrets that had been buried too long. The air in the house felt heavier than he remembered.
As they passed the staircase, William lagged slightly behind, eyes fixed on the dark hallway. "I don't like it here," he said quietly.
"You'll get used to it," Robert replied, though his voice lacked conviction.
Ethan nudged William lightly. "Come on, it's not that scary. Bet your dad's exaggerating."
William shot him a glare, but Robert could see a flicker of curiosity in his son's eyes. Perhaps even fear could be edged with intrigue.
Reaching the attic, Robert paused. Boxes of his childhood things—old trophies, books, and dusty photo albums—lined the shelves. Something about the quiet, the stillness, made him uneasy. The town outside felt too silent, like it was holding its breath.
Tom's voice pulled him back. "Dinner's ready in an hour. Don't let the place spook you before then."
Robert nodded, but deep down, he knew the house—and the town—wasn't just quiet. It was waiting. Waiting for someone to uncover what it had been hiding for years.
And he had a feeling he'd just stepped into the first thread of a dark, tangled web.