Three years. Three long, silent years drifting through the streets of Hawkins, walking paths worى smooth by footsteps that I have memorized. The buildings, the corners, the narrow alleyways—they speak to me in whispers and vibrations that no one else hears. Shadows stretch too long across walls, twisting unnaturally in the flickering light. Every rustle of leaves, every creak in the floorboards, every faint gust of wind carries a meaning I am always aware of.
The orphanage is a quiet machine in the mornings. Caretakers move like clockwork, moving through the motions, checking on children, arranging trays, closing doors with the soft click of a practiced hand. I sit apart, tray untouched, pretending to read a book I've read countless times. The other children chatter, laugh, collide in small bursts of sound—but the noise never reaches them as it reaches me. The hum coils tighter inside me, vibrating in my bones, threading through my skull. Observation is safety. Invisibility is survival.
The hallways of the school smell of chalk, old paint, and faint metal from the lockers. I follow the same routes I have memorized, step by step, careful not to draw attention. Hallways pulse with a rhythm invisible to most; I trace it. Light bends over the tiles in patterns I can read. Every footstep, every door's creak, every whisper of wind tells a story. Shadows twist at odd angles. Floors vibrate subtly beneath passing students. These currents speak to me, revealing what the world does not intend to show.
Classrooms are just another extension of the same silent machinery. I sit near the back, pretending to be absorbed in lessons I have no real interest in. My eyes wander. Every flick of the teacher's hand, every movement outside the windows, every shuffle of paper or shift in a student's posture is recorded and cataloged in the quiet archives of my mind. The hum pulses with every disturbance in the environment, a low, insistent presence that I alone perceive.
During recess, the world becomes louder, sharper. Children run, shout, push, and collide with reckless energy. Chairs scrape, swings creak, laughter pierces the air like splintered glass. I remain at the periphery, silent, tracing the movements, the shadows, the subtle currents in the air. I notice the way sunlight shifts across the ground, the micro-vibrations as sneakers hit the pavement, the way shadows fold and unfold over small cracks in the playground. Patterns emerge, and I track them meticulously. Three years of observation have taught me that danger often hides in the ordinary, and that the ordinary is rarely what it seems.
The streets of Hawkins carry the same language, and I read it as one might read a map. Every brick, every crack, every streetlamp hums with meaning. I walk alone after school, backpack slung over my shoulder, and the town opens its secrets to me. Trees sway with hidden currents. Streetlights flicker in rhythms that are never accidental. A door opens, then closes, a faint vibration echoing through the pavement. The hum tightens, wrapping around me, binding me to the hidden threads that connect every building, every corner, every shadow.
Evening brings a dim calm. The orphanage quiets, halls echoing softly with the distant footsteps of caretakers. I sit in my usual corner, tracing the worn patterns in the carpet, letting my awareness extend beyond walls, beyond windows, beyond the familiar boundaries of the orphanage. Every crack in the floor, every flicker of light, every distant whisper carries significance. I catalog it all, silently, unseen. The ordinary world is a puzzle, and I trace its edges, mapping it meticulously, silently, for my own understanding.
Three years of silence, three years of observation, three years apart. And yet the hum never ceases. It coils and pulses, a constant reminder that something waits just beyond perception. A force, undefined, brushing at the edges of awareness, subtle yet insistent. I press my palms to my temples to steady myself, to ground the tension that threads through every part of me, but it does not leave. It never leaves.
The nights in Hawkins are alive in ways that day is not. Shadows stretch long across streets, bending unnaturally. The wind whispers in soft, haunting tones, carrying with it the echoes of unseen currents. I linger at the edges of town, tracing them, cataloging the invisible threads that bind the ordinary world to something deeper. Every light, every shadow, every vibration speaks a language only I can understand.
In the stillness of the night, I close my eyes and let the hum guide me. I feel the pull of currents hidden from ordinary eyes. I feel the weight of the unseen pressing gently against the limits of perception. Three years have taught me patience. Three years have taught me to remain unseen, unheard, untouchable. Yet even in this solitude, I am not alone. The town hums with life, with currents, with threads that shift and twist around me.
I am Noah Gray. Awake. Observant. Different. Alone, yet intimately connected to the hidden edges of Hawkins. Every movement, every breath, every whisper of the world passes through me. And I remain, silent, cataloging, tracing the patterns no one else notices, preparing for what is coming, though I do not yet know its shape.
The night deepens. Shadows grow and bend across the walls. Light flickers in irregular patterns. The hum inside me coils, tight and alert. I remain in the corner, tracing invisible lines, mapping the world that moves blindly around me. Awareness is my only companion. The ordinary is a mask, and I alone see through it. Three years of quiet vigilance. Three years of standing apart. And always, always, I am awake again.