The apartment was cheap in a way Brett didn't question— and later wished he had. It sat quietly at the end of Hollis Lane, the building older than the surrounding shops, its paint dull and peeling despite recent attempts to make it look welcoming. The landlord spoke quickly, avoided eye contact, and mentioned the rent twice, as if afraid Brett might change his mind. Raj stayed close to his father as they stepped inside. The air smelled faintly of dust and old wood. Sound behaved strangely there—footsteps seemed softer than they should have been, voices lingering a fraction of a second too long. Raj noticed the painting almost immediately. It leaned against the wall near the stairs, half-covered by a yellowed cloth. When Raj pulled it aside, his breath caught. Two children were painted holding hands. One was whole. The other… wasn't. The canvas had been torn where the boy's eyes should have been. Not ripped violently, but carefully, deliberately. The edges were rough but controlled, as if whoever had done it had taken their time. Only the lower half of the face remained. A mouth. A chin. Still. Brett followed Raj's stare and frowned. "That's creepy," he muttered. "Previous tenants probably left junk." He reached for the frame. Raj grabbed his wrist. "No." The word came out sharp, urgent—far louder than Raj meant it to be. Brett looked down at him, surprised. "Raj?" Raj didn't know why he'd stopped him. He didn't like the painting. It made his stomach twist. But the idea of it being gone felt worse—like losing something important without knowing why. "It shouldn't be thrown away," Raj said quietly. Brett studied him for a long moment, then sighed. "Fine. But it goes in your room." That night, the painting hung opposite Raj's bed. Raj turned his face toward the wall before sleeping. Still, when he woke in the middle of the night, his eyes were already on it.
Afew nights later, Brett woke suddenly. Thud. The sound was heavy, final. Rain tapped softly against the windows, steady and unhurried. The apartment lay in darkness, the kind that felt thick rather than empty. Brett stepped into the hallway. At the bottom of the stairs, the wall clock lay face-down. The glass hadn't shattered. That unsettled him more than broken glass would have. He picked it up. Dust clung to the frame. The hands were frozen at 2:17. "Old thing," Brett muttered. He rehung it, gave it a small tap. Nothing moved. As he turned away, something made him look upstairs. Raj's door was slightly open. Brett climbed quietly and checked on him. Raj slept peacefully, his breathing slow and steady, his hands curled loosely at his chest. Relief loosened Brett's shoulders. But as he stepped back, his eyes drifted—against his will—to the painting. For a moment, he thought the faceless boy was looking at him. He blinked. The eyes were still gone.
Morning came bright and sudden. Sunlight poured into the apartment, sharp and unforgiving. Brett noticed the clock immediately. Still 2:17. Raj sat at the table, drawing. Two figures holding hands. One face unfinished. "That clock fell last night," Raj said without looking up. "Yeah," Brett replied, pouring coffee. "Probably just loose." "It fell because it wasn't needed anymore," Raj said softly. Brett laughed, a little too loudly. "You're starting to sound like an old man." Raj didn't smile.
Brett decided that afternoon had to mean something. Raj had been quiet for days—not withdrawn exactly, but distant, as if his thoughts were always somewhere else. Brett told himself it was grief layered over change. Children didn't always understand how to lose a parent and a home at the same time. So he made a plan. The playground came first. Raj hesitated at the swings, then climbed on. Brett pushed him gently at first, then higher. Raj laughed—really laughed—and Brett felt something in his chest loosen. They went to the games corner next. Raj won a small plastic toy after three failed attempts and smiled with the kind of pride only children had. Ice cream followed. Raj chose vanilla, like always. It melted too fast, dripping onto his fingers, but he didn't care. For a while, Brett allowed himself to believe this had worked. As they walked back, the city dipped into evening. Buildings glowed in dull orange light, shadows stretching long across the pavement. The sky looked heavy, as if rain might return. That's when Brett saw the clock shop. Its window was crowded—too crowded. Wall clocks of every size and style pressed against the glass, their faces staring outward. Brett thought of the clock at home, frozen and dull. "I'll just get a new one," he said casually. Inside, the shop felt warmer than it should have been. The air was thick with dust and old wood. Clocks ticked, but not together—each one out of sync, creating a soft, uneven noise that crawled under Brett's skin. The shopkeeper spoke as Brett browsed, but Brett barely listened. Raj wandered. At first, he stayed close. Then something pulled him farther in. It wasn't a sound—not exactly. More like a sensation, a pressure behind his eyes. Raj's steps slowed as he moved past rows of clocks until he reached the far end of the shop. An old clock hung there. Antique. Scratched. Forgotten. Its glass was clouded, its frame darkened with age. The hands were frozen. 2:17. Raj stopped. His breathing slowed. His body went still, like he was afraid to move. Behind him, Brett turned and felt panic surge. "Raj?" No answer. The ticking around them felt louder now. Brett rushed over and grabbed Raj's shoulders. "Raj!" Raj inhaled sharply, as if waking from deep water. "Home," he said instantly. His fingers clenched into Brett's jacket. "Please. I don't feel good." His voice trembled—not sick, not tired. Afraid. Brett paid quickly and ushered him outside. As they stepped away, Brett glanced back once more. "That clock," he asked the shopkeeper. "The antique one." The man hesitated. "Apartment 608," he said. "Hollis Lane." Brett felt his stomach drop. Before he could ask anything else, Raj screamed. Not loud—but desperate. "Don't," Raj cried. "NOO!! " Brett didn't look back again