It didn't change overnight. It shifted in small, forgettable ways — the kind you only notice when you look back. One evening, Brett found Raj standing in the hallway again. Not climbing. Not reaching. Just standing very close to the wall where the painting hung. His fingers hovered near the plaster, almost touching it. "Raj?" Brett said gently. Raj didn't turn. "They don't like when it's crooked," he murmured. Brett felt a faint chill move through him. "When what's crooked?" "The frame." There was no fear in Raj's voice. No drama. Just information. "Who told you that?" Brett asked carefully. Raj blinked, as if returning from somewhere far away. "Lisa said they used to get upset." Brett glanced toward the kitchen. Lisa was rinsing rice in a steel bowl. Water ran steadily. She hadn't reacted. Hadn't paused. "Did she say that today?" Brett pressed. Raj frowned slightly. "I don't know." Children blur conversations. They mix imagination with memory. That had to be it. Another afternoon, Brett walked into Raj's room and stopped. Raj had rearranged his bed. It was no longer pushed against the wall. It sat slightly away from it, leaving a narrow gap behind the headboard. "Why'd you move this?" Brett asked. Raj didn't look up from his sketchbook. "It's better like this." "Better how?" "They can't stand too close now." Brett's pulse stumbled. "Who can't?" Raj shrugged, still drawing. "The ones that watch from the inside." The inside of what? Brett forced a small laugh. "That's enough spooky talk." Raj finally looked up, confused. "It's not spooky." "Did Lisa tell you that?" A pause. Then quietly: "She said the wall used to be thinner." Brett straightened slowly. The wall was concrete. Solid. Unremarkable. That evening he mentioned it casually while setting the table. "Raj says you told him the walls used to be thinner." Lisa looked genuinely puzzled. "Thinner?" "That people could… stand inside." She stared at him for a moment, then shook her head. "No." No elaboration. No defensiveness. Just no. Brett studied her face for any flicker of something hidden. There was nothing there.
It became noticeable in ways Brett couldn't measure. Raj laughed more when Lisa was around. Not loudly. Not wildly. Just… easier. He followed her into the kitchen while she cooked. Sat at the table while she folded clothes. Asked her questions about small, ordinary things. "How do you know when rice is done?" "Why do some walls crack?" "Did your old house make noises too?" Lisa answered calmly. Patiently. Never dramatic. When she left in the evenings, the apartment felt different. Raj would sit near the door for a few minutes after it closed. Not crying. Just waiting. "You okay?" Brett would ask. Raj would nod. But the energy drained out of him. He stopped showing Brett his drawings immediately. Stopped asking him to watch cartoons. He wasn't misbehaving. He just… retreated. One Saturday, Lisa mentioned she would be off the next day. She said it casually. "I need to visit someone." Raj froze. "For how long?" he asked quickly. "Just the day." Raj didn't respond. The next day was quiet. Too quiet. Raj didn't turn on the TV. Didn't ask to go outside. He sat at the dining table with his sketchbook closed. When Brett suggested pancakes, Raj shook his head. "Not hungry." By evening, Brett's chest felt tight with something he didn't want to name. "Why are you upset?" he asked gently. Raj stared at the wall. "She listens." "To what?" "To them." Brett swallowed. "Lisa?" Raj didn't answer.
The shift hadn't happened in a day. It had been building quietly — layered into ordinary afternoons, small exchanges, forgettable moments. For nearly a week, Raj had been giving shorter answers. When Brett asked, "What did you and Lisa do today?" Raj would shrug. "Stuff." "What stuff?" "Just stuff." Brett had brushed it off at first. Kids get tired. Kids get bored. Kids grow out of things. He told himself that. But when he replayed the days in his head, he couldn't remember Raj volunteering anything. No excited retellings. No random details about games they played or stories Lisa told. Just brief responses. Closed ones. And somehow, he hadn't noticed. Then one evening, Brett came home earlier than usual. The apartment was quiet — not silent, but muted. He heard voices in the kitchen. Raj's voice was low. Intent. Lisa's voice softer. Brett stepped in mid-sentence. Raj stopped instantly. Not paused. Stopped. Like someone had flipped a switch. Lisa turned and offered a polite smile. "We were just finishing homework." Raj didn't look at Brett. "What were you saying?" Brett asked lightly. Raj picked at the corner of the table. "Nothing." "You were just talking." "Wasn't important." There was no edge in his tone. No attitude. Just dismissal. Brett felt something small twist in his chest. "Important to who?" he asked gently. Raj stood up. "I'm tired." He walked past him without eye contact. That was new. Raj had never walked past him like that before. Over the next few days, Brett paid closer attention. Raj still spent time with Lisa. Still sat beside her in the kitchen. Still asked her questions. But when Brett entered the room, the air shifted. Not dramatically. Just slightly. Conversations thinned out. Raj became quieter. Once, Brett overheard Raj ask Lisa, "Do you think he'll notice?" Brett stepped forward immediately. "Notice what?" Raj flinched — not in fear. In calculation. "Nothing," he said too quickly. Lisa didn't speak. She simply resumed drying dishes. That was the moment worry replaced confusion. Not anger. Worry. This wasn't misbehavior. This was secrecy. That night, Brett sat at the edge of Raj's bed. "Have I done something?" he asked quietly. Raj shook his head. "You can tell me if you're upset." "I'm not." "Then why won't you talk to me?" Raj hesitated. His fingers tightened around his blanket. "You wouldn't understand." The words weren't cruel. They were sincere. And that sincerity unsettled Brett more than rebellion would have. "Help me understand," Brett pressed softly. Raj looked toward the wall for a long moment before answering. "She listens better." Brett's throat tightened. "Lisa?" Raj nodded once. That was all. No elaboration. No defense. Just a statement. And suddenly Brett felt like an outsider in his own home.