Once silver, it’s been worn down by years of use, the metal beneath showing through in dull streaks of gold. I pause as I wonder how many hands have turned this. This house is over 180 years old. Generations have lived here. Did Carrson’s father open this door? His grandfather? Further back?
I brace myself for resistance, expecting the door to be locked, but the handle turns easily and the door swings open before I can push it.
Like it’s waiting.
Or…like it’s luring me inside.
I step forward, pulling the door closed behind me with a soft click. It’s dim, the curtains drawn. I tug them open enough to see I’m in an office. The center of the room is dominated by a large wooden desk. Ornate carvings crawl across the front of it, catching the light in shifting patterns, but I don’t inspect them. I don’t have time for that. Carrson could walk through that door any minute now. Find me standing here, surrounded by things I was never meant to see.
I picture it, the way his expression would shift, not all at once, but slowly. The stillness that would come first, that quiet pause before anything violent follows. The way his hands would go still at his sides, then clench. The coiled anger he carries that I’ve only caught glimpses of.
My gaze goes to the door, as if expecting it to move, but nothing changes. I force myself to exhale, even as cold spreads through my stomach.
I’ve seen both sides of him. The careful way he carried me here, the steadiness in his hands when I couldn’t stand on my own, how patient he was when I was at my most vulnerable.
And the other things. The bruises. The split skin across his knuckles. The way the punching bag spins and spins. How sap leaks from the tree where the knives hit. Like it’s bleeding.
My fingers twitch slightly at my sides.
He wouldn’t hurt me. The thought comes quickly, automatically. I hold onto it briefly, then let it go.
Because I don’t actually know that.
Do I?
I give myself a small shake. I’m wasting time I don’t have. Faster now, I scan the surface of the desk—pens, pencils, everything arranged neatly—and one item grabs my attention.
A computer.
I’ve seen them before, of course. Rows of them in the campus lab, humming under fluorescent lights, screens glowing green or dull gray, while students hunch over keyboards as if they’re trying to translate a language no one’s ever heard before.
But never like this, sitting alone on a desk like it’s only meant for one person. How much would this cost? Enough that most people wouldn’t even consider it, but that’s the point, right? These aren’t normal college students.
I step closer, leaning around to inspect the back, curious who made it. I expect to find a label, IBM, maybe. Compaq. A familiar name, but there’s nothing. No branding. No sticker. No indication it was ever meant to be identified at all.
Strange. Even the lab computers have markings, inventory tags, serial numbers, anything that ties them to a place, a point of origin.
This one doesn’t.
Not only that, the shape of this computer is sleeker than I’ve seen before. The plastic housing smoother. The keyboard more fully integrated. Like it’s a newer, more advanced technology. The screen is dark, reflecting a faint, distorted version of the room behind me. I’m there too, barely visible in the glass, pale and blurred at the edges, like someone haunted.
I peek over at the door. If Carrson walks in right now, everything ends. There won’t be a warning, no raised voices or pleading for forgiveness. My stomach roils.
This is his space, his rules, and I’m already breaking them.
But when will I ever have this chance again? To be in this house, in this room, alone?
I reach forward and press the on/off button. My reflection disappears as the screen flickers to life. A low buzz fills the room. Too loud?
My gaze snaps to the door. I listen, but it stays closed. The house beyond remains quiet.
I turn back as text appears across the screen.A prompt.
C:\>
The cursor sits blinking, waiting.
I stare at it, a restless energy building under my skin. I don’t know what it wants. A name, maybe. A command. Simple enough for someone who knows what they’re doing. That person is clearly not me, but I try anyway. My fingers hover, then type the first thing I think of.
