The bus rumbles forward, wheels grinding against half-frozen slush that covers the road. Each turn makes the frame groan like an old ship struggling through a storm. The heater hisses faintly, but it barely warms the air. My breath fogs in front of me, curling into the frosted glass of the window. I trace lines in it with my fingertip, like a child, before the mist fades into nothing.
Outside, the city looks alive, far more alive than I feel. Strings of holiday lights drape from rooftops and lampposts, blinking cheerfully through the veil of snow. Couples hurry into cafés, their laughter spilling into the street before the doors shut behind them. Children chase each other with snowballs, cheeks red from the cold, their parents calling after them with half-hearted scolds.
It should feel warm. It should feel like joy.Instead, all I feel is the scrap of paper in my pocket. Kean's number.
I've carried it for days, unable to let go but too afraid to use it. It's ridiculous, how something so small can weigh heavier than stone.
My thumb hovers. I press call.
One ring. Two. Three.
"...Hello?"
The voice is unmistakable. Gravelly, tired. Kean.
"It's me," I whisper. "Sirius."
There's a pause, then chaos floods through the line, shouts echoing in narrow halls, radios buzzing static, hurried footsteps pounding against hard floors. He's not somewhere quiet. He's in the middle of something.
"You picked the worst possible time, kid," Kean mutters. "I'm standing outside a homicide scene."
The words pierce like ice. "A… homicide?"
"Yeah. Third floor of an apartment block. Door's busted in, carpet's soaked. Neighbors whispering like it's some damn soap opera. The air stinks of liquor and old smoke." His voice drops, rough as sandpaper. "And before you twist this in your head. this has nothing to do with your parents' crash. Different story. Completely different. Understand?"
The bluntness knocks the air out of me. Relief rushes in, but it collides with disappointment, leaving a hollow ache in my chest.
"Then… why talk to me at all?" I force the question out.
Kean's sigh crackles through static, low and sharp. "Because this isn't a conversation for phones. Too many ears. Too easy for words to lose their meaning. Too easy for the wrong people to listen."
I grip the edge of my seat tighter. "So what is it about, then?"
"You'll know when we meet," Kean says flatly. "But hear this: I'm not dragging you into my case. This murder has nothing to do with you. I just need to talk to you face-to-face. Quickly. Without static. Without screens."
My heart pounds, unsure whether to be insulted or afraid. "You don't trust me over a call?"
"I don't trust phones," he snaps back.
The bus jolts over a pothole, making me clutch the back of the seat in front of me. An old man grumbles, glaring at me before sinking back into half-sleep. The ordinary weight of the world presses all around me, yet my world feels like it's tilting into a shadow.
"When?" My voice comes out smaller than I intended.
"Today." Kean's reply is firm, no room for debate. "Five o'clock. Riverside Park, near the East Bridge. Neutral ground. Close enough to this building that I can make it after the scene clears."
My reflection stares back at me from the fogged glass—pale skin, tired eyes, a boy pretending to be older than he is. Erika's smile flickers in my mind. She'd never let me go if she knew. She'd chain the door shut if she had to.
"Five o'clock," I murmur.
"Don't be late," Kean says, and the line clicks dead.
I lower the phone slowly into my pocket. My fingers tremble even inside my gloves. Around me, the bus carries on, indifferent. A teenager laughs at a picture on his phone. A little girl presses her face to the window, squealing at the falling snow. A woman hums under her breath, clutching grocery bags filled with tangerines and bread.
Normal lives. Warm lives.I can't remember what that feels like anymore.
I close my eyes, leaning my forehead against the cold glass. The hum of the engine, the rhythm of the wheels, the muffled conversations, all of it blends into a single droning hum. My thoughts scatter like snowflakes caught in a gust.
A murder in an apartment. A detective who doesn't trust phones. A meeting at Riverside Park.And me, just a boy pretending he's not afraid, dragged closer and closer to something he doesn't understand.
The bus slows at the next stop. People shuffle out, boots squeaking against the slush outside. I stay put, clutching the secret in my chest.
Five o'clock. Riverside Park. A case that has nothing to do with me...yet somehow, I've been pulled into its orbit.
I breathe out, fogging the window again, watching it fade. Like the life I used to know.