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He looks down.

"They never talked about before they adopted me."

A cold sensation moves through me.

"Before?"

He nods.

"They said some things were better left buried."

The cottage creaks. Neither of us moves.

"What is that?"

I shrug.

Outside, thunder rolls again. But the storm has already passed. That is impossible. The rain has stopped. The street beyond the glass is still. Too still. Morrow follows my gaze.

Then he whispers:

"Someone is outside."

My body goes cold.

"What?"

He doesn't answer. He just stares toward the darkness beyond the window.

"I don't know how I know."

The messages are real. The fear is real. But one question keeps circling through my mind.

"Morrow."

He looks up.

"Yeah?"

"Why did you come here?"

His expression changes slightly.

"I told you."

"You said you were looking for me."

"Yes."

"That isn't what I asked."

For a moment, he looks younger. Not 15. Not almost grown. Just a scared kid who has spent too long carrying something too heavy.

"I found something."

"What?"

He hesitates. Then reaches into his backpack. I tense immediately. He notices.