The apartment was too quiet.

Elliot Graves stood in the center of the living room, still clutching the box labeled FRAGILE – MOM'S THINGS, though he hadn’t opened it since the funeral. Dust drifted in lazy spirals through the weak afternoon light, casting shadows that stretched too far for comfort. The air smelled faintly of paint and plaster, clean but hollow—like something waiting to be filled. Or remembered.

He hated mirrors, so he had already covered the one in the hall with an old sheet. The way his reflection looked back at him lately—tilted slightly, as if amused—set his teeth on edge. He told himself it was the sleep deprivation. Or the grief. Or both.

He placed the box down on the coffee table and sat beside it, resting his head in his hands. His fingers pressed against his temples, trying to squeeze the tension out. But the dreams had returned last night—fragmented images of a basement, a boy’s voice whispering beneath floorboards, and a name he hadn’t heard since he was a child.

Emmett.

He had once asked his mother about the name. She had frozen in the kitchen doorway, pancake batter still on her hands. “That was no one,” she’d said flatly. “Just someone you made up when you were little.”

But Elliot hadn’t made him up. He remembered Emmett. He remembered playing with him, fighting with him, sharing birthday cakes with only one candle between them.

Or had he?

He turned to the box. The tape peeled away slowly, like skin. Inside, there were photographs—sepia-toned and curling at the edges—old notebooks, his mother’s jewelry. And a single, unlabeled manila envelope.

Heart ticking faster, Elliot opened it.

Inside was a photograph of two boys, identical, maybe four or five years old. Standing in front of a swing set, arms draped over each other’s shoulders. Smiling.

On the back, in his mother’s handwriting:

Elliot & Emmett – 1998.

His fingers trembled. The photo slipped to the floor.

From the hallway, something creaked. Just once.

He looked up, throat tightening. The sheet over the mirror fluttered slightly, as if stirred by breath.

And in the silence, Elliot heard it. Faint. Familiar.

A laugh.

His laugh.

But it wasn’t coming from him.