Vince woke to the sound of nothing.
That was what pulled him out of sleep. Not a noise ~ the absence of one. In the city, even the quiet had layers: a bus sighing somewhere, a siren folding into distance, pipes knocking behind walls. Here, the silence sat flat and complete, like a held breath that never let go.
He stared at the ceiling until the shapes resolved into water stains he didn't recognize.
Greyford.
The shower rattled when he turned it on. The water surged hot, then thinned without warning. He stood there longer than he meant to, letting the sting keep him grounded. When he shut it off, the house went back to its waiting.
Outside, the morning was clean and bright. Too clean. Sunlight cut through the trees in long, straight lines, striping the road. The town looked arranged. Lawns trimmed to the same height. Curtains half-drawn in the same careful way.
People noticed him.
Not enough to be rude. Enough to register.
At the blue house on Alder Street, a woman answered with a mug already cooling in her hands. Her eyes flicked to the driveway, then back to his face.
"Yes?"
"Detective Stone," he said.
Recognition crossed her face — quick, then buried. She stepped out onto the porch and pulled the door shut behind her, as if the house itself shouldn't hear.
"It was probably nothing," she said, before he asked.
Vince let the pause stretch.
"At night," she added, shifting her grip on the mug, "things look different."
"What did you see?"
She looked past him, toward the trees. "Light. Just there. Through the branches."
"Moving?"
"No." A beat. "Not really."
"Sound?"
She shook her head. "No sound."
That bothered her. He could feel it. The quiet was the wrong kind.
"It didn't last long," she said, smiling now, the kind of smile people used to seal a conversation. "I figured it was kids. Or someone lost."
"You recognize anyone?"
"No."
The word came too fast.
He thanked her. She nodded, already turning back toward the door.
The garage near the tree line smelled like oil and warm metal. A radio murmured from somewhere inside - talk, not music. A man stood over an open hood, sleeves dark with grease.
"You the city detective," the man said, not looking up.
"Yes."
Harold wiped his hands on a rag that had given up pretending to be clean. "Door was open when I got up."
"You lock it?"
"Always."
"Nothing missing?"
"No."
"Anything feel off?"
Harold hesitated. Just a second. Long enough.
"I didn't forget," he said finally. "That's all I know."
The engine ticked as it cooled. Somewhere, something metallic clanged, then settled.
"Anyone else talk about this kind of thing?" Vince asked.
Harold shrugged. "People talk about the weather. Crops. Football."
"And this?"
"No." He met Vince's eyes then. "No reason to."
By afternoon, Vince had been inside five kitchens. Stood on six porches. Accepted coffee he didn't want. Heard the same phrases reshuffled. Nothing dramatic. Nothing solid. Just small absences where details should have been.
Greyford didn't resist him.
It redirected.
The drive back to the rental took longer than it should have. The road narrowed as trees closed in, their shadows brushing the hood of the car. When he pulled in, the porch light was on.
He sat there, engine running, staring at it.
He was sure he'd turned it off.
Inside, the house smelled faintly of dust and old wood. He checked the doors. Locked. Windows. Fine. Still, the place felt altered - not changed, just… aware.
At the table, he opened his notebook.
The city came back without warning.
A stairwell, narrow and sour with bleach. A woman's shoe at the bottom step. A man sitting halfway down, rocking, saying it wasn't supposed to go like that. Doors along the hallway closed just enough for people to listen without being seen.
In the city, truth spilled. Loud. Messy. No one could stop it.
Here, it felt like someone had wiped the edges clean.
A knock sounded.
Sharp. Close.
Vince stood. Waited. Listened.
When he opened the door, the porch was empty. No footsteps. No engine turning over. Just the road and the trees and the quiet pressing in again.
That night, sleep came thin and fractured.
Sometime past midnight, he woke and went to the window. Beyond the trees, something glimmered ~ faint, steady ~ then vanished, leaving the dark heavier than before.
He didn't write it down until morning.
Some things felt different once they were on paper.