Brett didn't plan to do it that night. He had told himself he would wait. Observe longer. Be rational. But that afternoon, after finding Raj crouched on the kitchen floor — distant, methodical, unreachable — something inside him shifted from confusion to decision. By evening, the apartment felt smaller than usual. Lisa was wiping down the counter when Brett asked, "Can we talk?" She dried her hands slowly before sitting across from him. Calm as always. Too calm. For a moment, he couldn't speak. The words felt unfair in his mouth. She had been patient. Gentle. Good with Raj in ways Brett hadn't managed lately. But that was exactly the problem. "I think this has gone far enough," he said finally. Lisa didn't ask what he meant. She didn't pretend not to understand. Her eyes held his steadily. "He's not himself," Brett continued, his voice tighter now. "And it's worse when you're here." A lie. And not a lie. "He clings to you. He hides things from me. He—" Brett stopped himself before saying too much. Before sounding irrational. Lisa waited. "You've changed the dynamic in this house," he finished, choosing the safest phrasing he could find. Silence stretched between them. Outside, a car passed. The clock in the hallway remained frozen. "I see," Lisa said at last. No defense. No hurt pride. Just acknowledgment. "I don't think you do," Brett replied, harder now, because if he softened he might falter. "He was different before." "He was," she agreed quietly. That answer struck him strangely. "You're not going to argue?" "There's no point." Something in her tone felt less like submission and more like acceptance — as if this had always been inevitable. Brett leaned forward slightly. "If there's something I should know, now would be the time." Lisa's gaze flickered, just once, toward the hallway. Toward the painting. Then back to him. "You're his father," she said softly. "You'll handle it." It wasn't reassurance. It sounded like a passing of responsibility. Brett swallowed. "This isn't a discussion. I need you gone by the end of the week." Lisa nodded. "Of course." The ease of it unsettled him more than pleading would have. "You're not surprised?" he pressed. Her lips curved faintly — not quite a smile. "No." That single word landed heavier than any argument could have. For the first time since she'd entered their lives, Brett felt something close to fear — not of her, but of what she seemed to understand without being told. Still, he held his ground. Hard heart. Closed door. "I'll arrange your final payment," he said. Lisa stood. "Take care of him," she replied. There was something unfinished in the way she said it. As if she almost added more. But didn't. And when she walked down the hallway to gather her things, Brett could have sworn the air felt thinner — like something had just been removed. Or released. He didn't know which was worse.
After Lisa left, the quiet didn't stay quiet. It thickened. At first, Raj simply refused things. Food. Conversation. Outside air. Brett told himself it was grief. Children don't process loss cleanly. But then it began to change. Some evenings, Raj would sit at the dining table like himself — small, withdrawn, but present. If Brett asked a question gently enough, he'd nod. Sometimes even whisper a reply. Other times— There was no softness in him. He would sit unnaturally still, eyes fixed on the antique clock. Not watching it. Waiting. "Raj?" No response. "Buddy?" A slow blink. Then, without looking away: "It's almost time." "For what?" Silence. When Brett touched his shoulder, Raj's head turned too slowly — as if the motion had to travel through him first. "Don't," he said. Not loud. But firm. That firmness did not belong to a child. The painting in the hallway became a problem. Raj began sitting beneath it again. Cross-legged. Murmuring. At first Brett assumed he was playing pretend. Kids talk to imaginary friends. That was normal. But one evening, Brett stood quietly around the corner and listened. Raj wasn't inventing both sides of a conversation. He was pausing. As if waiting for replies. "Not yet," Raj whispered to the painted boys. "He doesn't understand." Brett stepped into view. Raj stopped immediately. "What were you doing?" Brett asked. Raj looked up slowly. "They don't like when you interrupt." A chill moved through Brett. "Who doesn't?" Raj frowned faintly. "You know." "No, I don't." But Raj's expression shifted then — and for a brief second, it was confusion. Real confusion. As if he didn't know why he'd said it either. The sleepwalking started three nights later. Or at least, Brett thought it was sleepwalking. He woke around 2:17 AM — not from noise, but from absence. Raj's bedroom door was open. The bed empty. Brett's pulse spiked as he stepped into the hallway. Raj stood beneath the clock. Head tilted back. Eyes open. Not groggy. Not wandering. Awake. "Raj?" Brett whispered. Raj didn't answer. His lips were moving. Barely. Brett moved closer. "…almost ready…" Raj murmured. "For what?" Brett demanded softly, fear creeping into his voice. Raj blinked once. Then slowly turned. And in that instant, his face was blank in a way Brett had never seen. No anger. No sadness. No recognition. Just vacancy. Then, like someone surfacing from underwater— "Dad?" His posture loosened. He looked confused. "Why are you awake?" Brett forced himself to breathe. "You were standing here." Raj looked at the clock. Then back at him. "I was sleeping."
It had been days since Raj felt like himself. Some mornings he wouldn't respond unless Brett called his name twice. Some nights he stood in the hallway staring at nothing. The house no longer felt lived in — it felt occupied. So that evening, Brett tried something simple. On his way home, he bought Raj's favorite chocolate biscuits, a small remote-control car, even a sketchbook with thick ivory pages. Something to bring him back. He unlocked the door. "Raj? I got you something." Silence. Not the normal kind. Not the "headphones on" kind. The apartment felt wrong. Still. Heavy. Brett dropped the shopping bags on the table. "Raj?" No answer. His heartbeat began to climb. He checked the bedroom. Empty. Kitchen. Empty. Balcony locked from inside. "Raj!" His voice was sharp now, fear bleeding into it. Then he noticed it. A faint light upstairs. The bathroom. Relief came first. Then irritation. "Raj, you scared me," he muttered as he climbed the steps. The bathroom door was half open. Raj sat on the floor beneath the sink, back facing the door, shoulders slightly hunched. He didn't turn when Brett entered. "Raj?" Nothing. Then Brett heard it. A soft, wet snapping sound. Slow. Rhythmic. He stepped closer. And froze. Cockroaches were scattered across the white tiles. Some twitching weakly. Some flattened. Some in pieces. Raj held a kitchen knife in his small hand. Not gripping it wildly. Holding it steadily. He had arranged the insects in a loose line in front of him. One by one. Methodical. Some had their legs pulled clean from their bodies. Others had their wings sliced off and set aside. A few had been split open, dark insides smearing faintly across the tile. The smell — sharp, bitter, metallic — hung in the air. Raj pressed the knife down slowly on another one. It twitched beneath the blade. He applied more pressure. The small body gave way with a soft crack. Brett felt his stomach lurch. "Raj." No response. "They keep crawling," Raj murmured quietly, almost to himself. Brett's voice shook. "What are you doing?" "They don't stop." He lifted one of the insects between his fingers. Its legs dangled loosely, detached. "They hide in walls." Brett stepped forward quickly, grabbing Raj's wrist. "That's enough! That's disgusting!" Raj stopped. But he didn't look at him. "They were being bad," Raj said flatly. "Bad?" Brett's voice cracked. "They're bugs, Raj!" Raj's head tilted slightly. "They go where they're not allowed." The knife was still in his hand. Too close to his face. There was something terrifying about how calm he was — no thrill, no anger. Just purpose. Brett forced him to turn around. "Look at me." Raj resisted for a second — not struggling, just stiff — then turned. His cheeks were pale. A faint streak of dark residue marked one side of his hand. His eyes lifted slowly. And Brett's breath caught. For a split second, they didn't look like Raj's eyes. They looked deeper. Colder. As if someone else was peering out through them. "You don't clean them properly," Raj said. The tone didn't match his small body. Brett yanked the knife from his hand. "Enough!" he snapped. Raj blinked. Once. Twice. The tension in his face flickered. Confusion replaced that hollow stillness. "Dad?" he whispered faintly. His body swayed. And then he collapsed forward. Brett barely caught him before his head struck the sink cabinet. "Raj! Raj!" Panic surged through him. He checked his pulse — racing, but steady. His breathing shallow. Hands trembling, Brett lifted him in his arms. Raj felt lighter than he should have. Smaller. He carried him downstairs, laid him gently on the bed, and pulled the blanket over him. Raj's face looked peaceful now. Too peaceful. Like nothing had happened. Brett sat beside him for a long time, trying to slow his breathing. Upstairs, the bathroom light still glowed. And somewhere in the hallway, the antique clock gave a faint, single tick. For the first time in days.