February 1st.
The house was quiet when Troy Greyson turned fifteen.
No balloons.
No music.
No candles waiting to be lit.
Just the steady ticking of the kitchen clock and the low, endless hum of the refrigerator—two sounds that had long since become part of the walls.
Troy sat at the table, elbows resting lightly against the wood, a glass of orange juice untouched in his hand. Pale morning light filtered through the blinds, casting thin bars across his face.
He stared at nothing in particular.
Fifteen.
It didn't feel like a milestone.
Didn't feel like anything at all.
"Happy birthday."
His mother's voice came softly from behind him.
Troy didn't flinch. He had gotten used to the careful way she spoke to him—like each word had to pass through layers of thought before reaching the air.
"Thanks" he said.
She stepped beside him and placed a plate on the table. Two slices of toast. Slightly overdone.
A faint, almost bitter smell rose from them.
Burnt.
Troy's eyes lingered on the edges for half a second longer than necessary.
Once upon a time, that smell would have meant something.
Something sharp. Something exciting.
Now.
He picked up a slice and took a bite.
Crunch.
Nothing.
Just toast.
★★★
"You're up early," his mother said, pouring herself a cup of coffee.
"I didn't sleep much."
She paused, just for a moment. "Nerves?"
Troy shrugged. "Just woke up."
It wasn't a lie. It just wasn't the full truth either.
He had learned that balance over the years—how to say enough without saying anything at all.
His mother nodded slowly, like she wanted to ask more but chose not to.
"Fifteen" she said instead, forcing a small smile. "That's… big."
"Is it?"
A faint huff of amusement escaped her. "It is to me."
Troy gave a small nod, more out of acknowledgment than agreement.
Silence settled again, but it wasn't heavy. Not like it used to be.
This kind of silence was… stable.
Safe.
★★★
He's doing better.
The words came back to him easily.
Mrs Patel had said them. Teachers too. Even his mother, though she sounded like she didn't fully believe it at first.
He's improved.
No more therapy needed.
He's stable.
Troy had learned those words well.
Learned how to fit into them.
To act in ways that made them true—at least on the surface.
And over time… something strange had happened.
It had become easier.
★★★
The divorce had happened two years ago.
Quiet. Clean. Controlled.
No shouting.
No slammed doors.
No breaking things.
No fire.
Just signatures on paper and a man walking out of the front door with a suitcase and a tired look that never quite reached anger or sadness.
Troy had watched from the window.
He remembered waiting.
Waiting for something to rise inside him—anger, grief, anything.
But there had been nothing.
Just a hollow stillness.
He hadn't even told anyone that part.
★★★
"You'll be late for school" his mother said gently, pulling him back to the present.
Troy blinked once. "Yeah."
He stood, grabbing his bag from the chair. The routine was automatic now—keys, phone, bag. Everything in its place.
As he stepped into the hallway, his movement slowed.
The drawer.
It sat exactly where it always had, tucked beneath the small mirror near the door.
He hadn't opened it in years.
Not since—
Troy stopped in front of it.
For a moment, he just stood there, hand hovering slightly above the handle.
There was no fear.
No urgency.
Just… awareness.
Then he pulled it open.
Inside, beneath scattered receipts and a couple of old batteries, lay a small cardboard box.
Worn at the edges.
Familiar.
Matches.
The same ones.
Troy stared at them.
Seconds passed.
Nothing happened.
No rush of heat.
No tightening chest.
No pull.
Only memory.
Quiet. Distant.
He reached forward.
Then stopped.
His fingers hovered just above the box… before slowly pulling back.
The drawer slid shut with a soft click.
★★★
"See you later" his mother called from the kitchen.
"Yeah" Troy replied.
And just like that, he stepped outside.
The air was cool—February cold that brushed against the skin without biting too deep. The kind of cold that kept you awake.
Troy walked with his hands in his pockets, head slightly lowered, blending into the rhythm of the morning.
Passing cars.
Distant chatter.
Footsteps that weren't his own.
Normal.
That word again.
It followed him everywhere now, like a shadow that refused to leave.
Halfway down the block, he slowed.
An alleyway.
Nothing special. Just another narrow gap between buildings, half-forgotten and rarely used.
But something flickered inside.
Troy's gaze shifted.
A metal trash bin sat against the wall. Inside it....
A flame.
Small.
Unsteady.
Barely holding on.
Someone had probably tossed a lit cigarette without thinking.
It wasn't important.
It wasn't anything.
Troy stopped walking.
Just for a second.
His eyes fixed on the flame as it danced weakly against the wind—shrinking, stretching, fighting to stay alive.
There was no rush.
No overwhelming pull.
Just a quiet stillness.
And then....
Something stirred.
Faint.
Subtle.
A whisper curling at the edge of his thoughts.
'You remember.'
Troy's expression didn't change.
He stood there, watching as the flame flickered again, smaller this time.
Struggling.
Dying.
His fingers twitched once inside his pocket.
Then stilled.
A slow breath left his lips.
"…It's nothing," he murmured, almost to himself.
And he turned away.
His footsteps resumed, steady and unhurried, carrying him forward without hesitation.
Behind him, the flame flickered once more.
Once.
Twice.
Then.
Darkness.
Troy didn't look back.