The 18th Shade Of Summer (Fractured Script Series #1)

CHAPTER 18

Akiro Roi Riyuzaki

My mom used to tell me things about summer. That the light it carried had a way of changing everything—not just the way things looked, but the way things felt, too.

She’d point at the river near our old house, how it sparkled a little differently in June than it did in August. Or the way the sunlight passed through the curtains in the morning, stretching long shadows across the floor. She said summer had colors you couldn’t name—blue, when the air felt heavy with sadness. Gray, when something was missing. And sometimes, a soft gold, when you felt okay, even if you didn’t know why.

I didn’t believe any of that back then. I was just a kid. I thought summer was summer. Hot, sticky, and a break from school.

But then she died.

And suddenly, those colors made sense.

It wasn’t just losing her—it was the way she died. The way I still blame myself, even if no one ever said it was my fault. I knew. I know.

That was the first summer that turned gray.

And the ten that followed? They stayed that way. Gray, blue, gray again. The kind of summers where no matter how bright the sun was, everything still felt cold.

Eighteen years ago, I woke up in this unfamiliar apartment.

The first thing I saw was the curtain moving gently from a breeze I couldn’t feel. The light filtering in through the window didn’t feel like anything. Not gold. Not warm. Not even gray or blue.

Just empty.

I sat up slowly, my head still foggy. I didn’t even remember falling asleep last night. The walls around me were clean, the furniture untouched. Like no one had really lived here, not yet.

I looked down at my hands. They were still the same ones I had when she died. Still the same ones I had when I made promises I didn’t keep.

To her.

To someone else.

Maybe even to myself.

I stepped out of the bedroom and into the living room. The place was… plain. A long couch sat against the wall, a coffee table in front of it with a half-melted candle placed right in the center, like someone had lit it once and forgot it ever existed. There was a wall clock above the door, ticking, but it didn’t feel like it was keeping time.

No photographs. No clutter. No warmth.

I pushed open the front door and stepped outside. The breeze met me first, gentle and dry. I looked around and realized I was on the second floor of a building I didn’t recognize. Everything felt still—too still.

I’d never been here before, and yet there was something about this place that felt familiar in the worst kind of way.

There was a unit right next to mine. 5A. I raised a hand and knocked gently on the door. Once. Twice.

No answer.

I waited a bit longer, then stepped back. The hallway was painted in washed-out beige, but somehow the whole floor felt like it was dipped in gray. Not in color, but in something else heavier.

I decided to go downstairs—to look for someone, anyone. The stairwell creaked under my weight. When I reached the first floor, I walked through the lobby and out onto the street.