“Huuu... Haa... Huuu... Haa...”
Acheron's breath came in ragged bursts, each exhale trembling in the cold air.
He stood hunched over, hands braced against his knees, before straightening up and lifting his gaze. The store in front of him—Smith & Smith General Store—loomed under the dim glow of streetlights. He hesitated for a moment, then stepped inside.
The store stretched wide, its aisles filled with neatly stacked canned goods, fresh produce, batteries, first-aid kits, and matches. A section in the back held warm clothing, while another displayed travel essentials—raincoats, boots, and simple fishing gear.
A few customers wandered between the shelves. Near the counter, a line had formed. Behind it stood Smith—the owner—a slow-moving, heavyset man who collected money in silence. His expression was dull, uninterested, until his gaze landed on Acheron.
“Come here. Quickly.”
Acheron lowered his gaze and made his way to the counter, his footsteps slow but steady. The customers in line turned to watch.
Smith’s voice cut through the air, sharp and unimpressed. “5:20...” His tone was clipped, irritated.
Acheron stared at his worn black shoes. "Did Sail make it home? If we’d won a million... maybe then we’d have a big house... maybe then people would respect me." The thought drifted through his mind, dulling the sting of Smith’s words. Harshness wasn’t new to him.
But Smith wasn’t finished. His voice took on a mocking edge. "I only hired you out of pity. Who else would’ve helped you after your grandfather died? It was me."
Acheron remained silent, his expression unreadable.
“It won’t happen again,” he said at last, still staring at his feet.
“Next time?” Smith scoffed, exhaling sharply. He was about to continue when a voice broke through the tension.
“I’m too old and tired to stand here all day.”
The old woman’s tone was firm but patient.
Smith’s gaze flickered to the waiting customers, their silent stares pressing against him. Realizing he was being watched, his demeanor shifted.
“Yes, Madam.” His voice softened, a forced smile appearing on his face. Without another word, he stepped away from the counter, muttering, “I pay him...”
Acheron took his place behind the register, resuming his work in silence. The old woman, now at the front, smiled kindly.
“You shouldn’t mind his words.”
Acheron didn’t respond. He simply scanned her items and began preparing the bill. “Forty-five coins.” His voice was firm, steady.
As she rummaged through her wallet, she asked, “Do you study?”
“Yes.”
“Which year?”
“Last year.”
She handed over the money and picked up her bag. “I like kids who work and study.” Then, after a pause, she placed a small candy bar in his hand.
“Take care, child. Strange times are coming... The outside world isn’t safe anymore.” Concern flickered in her eyes as she studied him.
“May God help you.” Her words lingered as she turned and walked away.
Acheron watched her go.
One after another, the counter gradually emptied. Customers trickled in and out, and then, after three long hours, the aisles stood silent.
Acheron’s gaze drifted toward the outside, behind the glass wall... The streetlight flickered, standing out from the others. In the shadows, he saw a boy in a school uniform, similar to his own, a pale face hidden in the dim light. The boy stood motionless, silently observing Acheron, until Acheron blinked—once, twice—and the figure was gone. Even the light had stopped flickering.
“What’re you looking at?” Smith asked, breaking the silence. And then, as though realizing the weight of the moment, he added, “You should go. I’ll close the store.”
“But it’s just 8 o’clock?” Acheron’s voice carried a trace of confusion, his pale face showing a flicker of unease.
“Feels like the whole city’s shutting down. Someone your age disappeared near this street... Officers are around.” Smith replied, a note of finality in his voice. “And I don’t want any trouble.”
Acheron nodded, gathered his things, and headed for the door. As he stepped outside, he realized something unexpected. The selfish man, the one who always seemed indifferent to him, had shown a strange care this time. It wasn’t care for him, but for himself—a reluctance to get involved in something bigger than either of them.
The store’s door swung shut behind Acheron as he stepped into the cool evening air. Though it was barely dusk, darkness had already settled, wrapping the world in an eerie silence. The city felt… off. Too still. The streetlights flickered like dying stars, and the wind carried a strange chill, a quiet unease lingering in the air. It was as if the city knew something he didn’t.
Above, an almost-full moon floated in the sky, its pale glow painting the streets in deep lavender shadows.
The streets were empty.
As Acheron walked, the distant hum of police sirens grew louder, cutting through the unnatural quiet. Ahead, near the desolate parking lot of a closed store, a group of people stood huddled. Two officers—Mr. Shin and his partner—were taking notes as a bald, muscular man with a thick beard spoke in a rushed, uneasy tone. Beside him stood Mr. and Mrs. Khurashi, their faces drawn tight with distress. Only five of them occupied the area, standing at a narrow junction where a few storefronts sat in darkness.
Acheron slowed his steps, listening.
"A woman—ten feet tall—draped in a red coat, the hem nearly brushing the ground," the bald man said, his voice taut with tension. "Her shirt, her skirt, her leggings, even her heels—everything was red. A wide-brimmed hat covered her face, but long black hair spilled from beneath it. Her gloves, too, were red. But it wasn’t just a color… it was blood. Dripping blood. Everything!"
The officers exchanged skeptical glances, the corners of their lips twitching with barely concealed amusement, but they kept writing.
The man inhaled shakily, his shoulders trembling.
"I was sitting in my car, scrolling through my phone. The street was empty—except for a schoolgirl walking alone."
"She is Noor, my tiflah," the woman murmured, tears slipping down her face.
"I ignored her, too focused on my screen. Then…" He swallowed hard. "Then I heard it."
He clenched his fists, his breath shallow.
"A scream."
Acheron watched as his hands trembled, his voice now barely above a whisper.
"When I looked up, she was there. The girl—collapsed on the ground, trembling, unable to stand. I jumped out of my car and shouted, 'What happened?' but she didn’t react. She was crawling away from something… but no one was there." His voice cracked.
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"I ran to her, grabbed her, tried to lift her up. I barely made it before…" He exhaled shakily. "The girl… she looked at me and said, 'Behind you.'"
"When I turned… that woman was walking toward us. I shielded the girl with my body and told the woman to stay back." His voice dropped lower. "And then… I saw her face. She… she had no face. Nothing. Just emptiness."
"Help!" the girl had screamed. "But I couldn't pull her properly. The ground… the ground swallowed her."
"The girl isn’t there anymore. It was like she fell into the ground… After that, I felt it—something cold and heavy pressing against my back. And then…" His breath hitched. "Darkness."
A heavy silence settled between them. The officers kept writing, though their expressions had darkened.
A visible shudder ran through him.
He exhaled shakily. "I couldn't even help her…"
He fell silent.
Shin snorted. "You been drinking, pal?" He laughed, shaking his head. "A ten-foot-tall lady in red? Maybe you hallucinated your dream girl."
The bald man’s jaw tightened. "I wasn’t drunk." His voice was firm, desperate. "I know what I saw."
Officer Shawn, standing beside Shin, finished writing his notes and gave a small nod. "You have anything else to add?"
The man hesitated, then shook his head. "No… I'm telling you, she’s in the ground. Dig it… you’ll find her."
Shin exhaled. "Yeah, yeah. We’ll let you know if we need anything else. For now, you can go."
The man pulled down his jacket’s zipper and lifted his T-shirt, revealing his back. A large handprint—blue and red, like a fresh wound—stretched across his skin.
"What is this?" Shawn asked, staring at it curiously.
"Take a picture, Officer Shawn," Shin muttered, touching the mark. He frowned, feeling the texture of the wound. "Are you alright, man? This… this from that lady?" His tone had shifted, tinged with unease.
Mrs. Khurashi sobbed, Mr. Khurashi—still in his office uniform—holding her tightly.
"Sir, you should leave… we’ll handle everything," Shin said.
"No… My child is there!" Mrs. Khurashi pointed at the ground. "Dig it!"
Tears fell as she dropped to the pavement, clawing at the concrete with bare hands.
Mr. Khurashi gripped her shoulders, pulling her back. "We should go. You need rest," he murmured.
"No… I won’t go." She resisted.
"For the last three days… you’ve been like this," he whispered, holding her tighter and leaving slowly.
Mr. Shin’s eyes landed on Acheron, who was walking alone along the sidewalk. He stepped toward him, his posture relaxed, but his voice carried authority.
"What are you doing out this late?" His gaze lingered, assessing. "You do realize people are disappearing, right?"
Acheron met his eyes calmly. "I’m heading home."
Shin’s eyes narrowed slightly. "Where do you live?"
"Near Brown Street. Kin’s building," Acheron replied evenly.
Shin considered him for a moment, then sighed. "Alright. Go—but don’t waste time wandering around."
Acheron gave a slight nod and continued on his way.
But then—
"Wait a moment."
Shin’s voice cut through the night. Acheron stopped, turning back as Shin gestured for him to wait. He leaned toward Shawn, whispering something.
Shawn stiffened, then glanced at Acheron. Both officers were now looking at him.
Acheron shifted uncomfortably, instinctively touching his face.
"Haa..."
Acheron exhaled deeply, staring out of the police car window as Northern White blurred past—empty streets, dim-lit buildings, neon signs flickering in the dark. The only sounds were the occasional hum of a streetlamp and the distant wail of a siren.
"Officer aren't that scary."
In the driver’s seat, Mr. Shin exhaled heavily. "The girl we’re investigating… she was about your age." His voice was quieter now, less stern.
Acheron’s fingers tightened around his bag. He kept his gaze on the window. "Why are you telling me this?"
Mr. Shin shrugged. "Because kids like you should know what’s happening around them instead of getting lost in their own world." He paused.
Shin grunted. "Well, keep an eye out. I don’t know what the hell’s happening in this city, but until we figure it out, no one’s safe." He shot Acheron a side glance. "Not trying to scare you…"
The car slowed as they reached Acheron's apartment complex. It loomed ahead—old, gray, blending into the weary cityscape.
Shin said, "Don’t make your parents worry. Stay inside."
Acheron stepped out, gripping his bag. He stared at the building for a moment, then murmured under his breath—
"Parents?"
Shin didn’t seem to hear. Instead, he leaned out the window. "Just… watch your back."
Acheron glanced at him, his expression unreadable. Then Acheron said, "You must be appreciated…"
"By someone," he thought.
As the police car rumbled off into the night, Acheron walked toward the entrance. The building connected to an external stairwell leading to the second floor. Each step felt heavier than the last. The silence of the night pressed in around him, thick and unrelenting.
It was always like this.
Just him, the quiet, and the weight of something unseen.
Acheron reached for his key, but before he could unlock the door, a familiar voice greeted him.
"Evening, Acheron!"
Mrs. Alvarez—a short, aged lady who lived next door—stood in the hallway, a small container of soup in her hands. "I made this for you."
Acheron hesitated before accepting it. "Thanks, Mrs. Alvarez."
She gave him a knowing smile. "Your grandfather liked it."
Holding the container, Acheron nodded slightly.
"...He was a good man."
"He was kind and He was brave," Acheron said, his eyes slightly wet but had a smile.
"If you ever feel lonely, come over," Mrs. Alvarez said before retreating into her apartment.
The moment her door shut, Acheron inhaled.
After a brief moment of pause, he stepped into his place.
Inside, the air was still. His apartment remained as he had left it—the faint hum of the old fridge filling the silence. The soup sat untouched on the counter as he stripped off his jacket and collapsed onto the worn-out sofa. His gaze drifted to the ceiling, exhaustion settling deep in his bones.
"You look like hell."
Acheron closed his eyes for a brief moment. "Not now."
A deep chuckle echoed through the room. "You never listen to me."
He turned his head slightly, eyes falling on the figure standing near the window. His grandfather.
The old man’s form flickered slightly, his presence both familiar and unsettling. He was dressed just as Acheron remembered—worn-out shirt, hands tucked into his pockets. His expression unreadable.
"Ignoring me won’t make me disappear, kid."
Acheron sat up, rubbing a hand over his face. "I know. But Sail doesn’t see you. No one does. If I keep talking to ghosts in public, people will think I’ve lost it."
His grandfather exhaled, stepping closer. "Did you eat?"
"Yeah, I did," Acheron muttered, but at that moment, his stomach let out a deep, betraying growl.
His grandfather raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
Before Acheron could protest, the old man pulled him up and led him toward the kitchen. "I made something for you."
"You don’t have to," Acheron said, inhaling deeply.
His grandfather ignored him, taking out a dish from the fridge and setting it on the stove to heat. The scent of familiar spices filled the small apartment, stirring memories Acheron didn’t want to face.
"You’re special," his grandfather said, watching the food warm. "Don’t waste time worrying about what others think of you. People always had things to say about me, too. Their words broke my heart, but in the end, none of them remained. And yet, here I am."
Acheron sighed. "I know. They’re nothing."
His eyes lingered on his grandfather’s back as the old man stirred the food.
A pause. The old man studied him before reaching out, ruffling his hair with a ghostly hand. "You should eat. You’re too thin."
Acheron instinctively moved away, smoothing his hair down. "You always do that… You’ve been dead for a long time now. Why don’t you just move on?"
His grandfather chuckled, but there was warmth in his voice. "I’ll leave when I know you’re not alone anymore."
Silence filled the space again. Acheron leaned back against the counter, staring at the ceiling. "You always have something useless to say… I don’t need your protection. I’ve been fine on my own."
His grandfather’s voice softened. "I know. But that doesn’t mean I won’t worry."
Acheron took a bite, and as the warmth of the food settled, so did his thoughts. Memories crept in—moments from a childhood spent in isolation, whispers he never quite understood.
And then, one memory surfaced.
The park. The laughter. The cruel hands that had shoved him to the ground.
He had been alone. Until a boy had appeared.
The boy had stepped in, taking the blows meant for him. It had been the first time someone had fought for Acheron. The first time someone had stood by him.
But then, the bullies’ parents had arrived, blaming Acheron for the mess. He had stood there, feeling small, powerless—even the boy who had helped him was pulled away by his mother.
His grandfather had arrived soon after, fury in his eyes as he faced the parents. He had taken one look at Acheron’s dusty, bruised form and understood everything. Without hesitation, he had stepped between Acheron and the others.
"If your children ever lay a hand on him again, there will be consequences."
Even now, Acheron could hear his words, heavy with meaning. "Don’t wait for anyone else to save you. Even God helps those who help themselves."
Acheron blinked, the present rushing back in. The city outside remained frozen in eerie quiet.
His grandfather’s voice broke the silence.
"Did Mrs. Alvarez give you this?"
Acheron nodded, glancing at the soup container. A small smile tugged at his lips.
His grandfather studied him for a moment, understanding something unspoken. "You’re stronger than you think, Acheron. You always have been. You’re gifted."
A pause. Then, in a softer tone—one that carried both wisdom and weight—he added, "Use it well. Help those in need. Even the smallest step can change someone’s world."
Acheron exhaled, the weight of the past pressing against him. He didn’t respond. He just sat there, listening to the hum of the fridge, the occasional creak of the building…
And the steady, unshakable presence of the ghost who refused to leave him alone.
"Before you go to sleep," his grandfather said, "wash that container and return it to Mrs. Alvarez tomorrow."
Acheron let out a dry chuckle. "You don’t have to say it."
Out from his window, the city lay cloaked in darkness, the cold wind whispering through empty streets as the clock struck ten, carrying the quiet murmurs of a world slipping into silence.
But beneath the flickering streetlight stood a familiar figure, just like he had been outside of Smith & Smith, his school uniform still on, his face looking even paler—like a shadow of something from the past, or maybe a warning of what’s to come.
"So... You live here?" He smiled.
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