Noel had been seeing things since he was eight. Shadows that stretched wrong. People whose reflections didn't follow. A man on the train with too many teeth but only when Noel wasn't looking directly.
He told his father once. Just once. And the man had frozen, mouth tightening into a thin, bloodless line. He said nothing for a long time. Then quietly, grimly, he crouched beside Noel's bed and whispered;
"Keep your head down. Obey the rhythms. Don't attract attention."
"Be ordinary. Be forgettable. That's how you live."
"That's how I've lived."
And Noel had obeyed. His whole life. He didn't laugh too loudly, didn't dream too hard, didn't question when the neighbors disappeared or when the trains skipped entire districts without announcement. He ate the same meals, spoke in the same tones, rode the same bus line to the same job, day after day after day.
Because that's how people lived. That's how they stayed safe.
