The Inheritance of Shadows

Chapter 3

In the early afternoon, I finally opened the door to our apartment. The familiar creak of the hinges greeted me like an old friend. As expected, it was quiet—empty in that soft, echoey way that happens when no one's been home for a few hours.

I stepped inside, dropped my backpack with a dull thud near the couch, and toed off my sneakers. The silence wrapped around me, not like a void, but like a blanket—comforting, worn in. Most people would probably find it lonely. I didn't. I've always liked silence. There's something calming about it. Like sinking into a deep, warm pool of thought.

My mom's job keeps her busy, sometimes more than I'd like to admit, but I've never held it against her. She's trying. She always has been. And when we do get time together—when she cancels a late shift just to make pancakes at midnight or watches old movies with me in bed—it feels like more than enough. Like she's pouring all her effort into the moments that matter.

Plus, when I'm alone, I can yell at TV characters without judgment. So, I guess that there's always a good side.

I padded into the kitchen, opening the fridge without much hope. A container of pasta from two nights ago blinked up at me like, you again? Good enough. I scooped some into a bowl, shoved it in the microwave, and pressed start. While it whirred and spun lazily behind the glass, I leaned on the counter, staring out the window above the sink. The street below was quiet, just a few parked cars, a cat darting between trash bins, and the neighbor's wind chimes tinkling in the breeze.

The microwave beeped. I grabbed the bowl, nearly burned my fingers, and shuffled to the couch with a sigh, remote in hand.

Time to finish The Haunting of Hill House.

The screen lit up the room in a flickering, ghostly glow. Creepy, yes. Twisted? A little. But there was something poetic in it, something sad and human behind all the shadows and screams. It made me think more than it scared me. Those are my favorite kinds of stories—the ones that crawl under your skin and sit with you long after the credits roll.

By the time the final episode faded to black, the light in the apartment had shifted. Sunbeams cut across the room at a slant, golden and lazy, dust motes dancing like tiny spirits. I blinked at the clock and stretched, joints popping like old wood. It was later than I thought.

Back to reality.

In my room, I tied my hair back and set up at my desk. The clutter was familiar—highlighters, crumpled notes, half-empty water bottles, a mechanical pencil I'd been using since the seventh grade. Geography wasn't going to study itself. I pulled out my binder, flipped to the coastal erosion chapter, and opened my laptop for a few extra sources.

What followed was a quiet, meditative rhythm: read, underline, rewrite, curse under my breath, repeat. The sunlight shifted gradually across my desk as time passed. Hours blurred. At one point I stood up to stretch and realized I had finished not just my geography assignment, but all my homework. For the entire week.

That's when it hit me.

I wasn't doing this because I was some model student. I was doing it because... what else was there to do?

Once I had reviewed every possible flashcard, I let myself drift to the bottom shelf of my bookcase, where a few old photo albums lived under a thin layer of dust. I hadn't opened them in ages.

I pulled one out and sat cross-legged on the floor, flipping through pages of grainy, overexposed snapshots. Birthday parties, Halloween costumes, sand castles. My tiny self with gapped teeth and scuffed knees. And then, the photo that made me laugh out loud—loud enough to startle the silence.

Middle school. First year.

There we were—me, Noah, and Alhena—huddled awkwardly in our school uniforms, like three potatoes stuffed into a photo booth. My hair was trying to do five different things at once, Noah's braces gleamed under the harsh flash, and Alhena had on this glitter headband that could've been used as a disco ball.

We were disasters.
But we were us.
So i guess that it was worst than being disasters.

Some people say middle school is hell. But for me, it was magic. Messy, embarrassing, loud—but magic.

High school brought Elly and Luke into the picture. I didn't know if I'd like them at first. But now? I couldn't imagine life without them. The five of us had grown into something... bigger than friendship. A little family. Not perfect, but ours.

Sometimes I wonder how I got so lucky. Other times, I wonder how long luck lasts.

I turned another page—and stopped.

There I was, age six, sitting cross-legged in the park, unwrapping presents. Sunlight filtered through the trees. My cheeks were rounder then. My smile wider.

And next to me was him.
My dad.

Tall. Pale. Brown curls falling across his forehead. He looked like he belonged in a novel, not real life. I stared at the photo for a long time, the ache in my chest building.

It had been nine years since that trip., almost ten.
Nine years since he walked out the door and never came back.

I was too young to understand it then. I just thought he was on a really long work trip. But work trips don't stretch into forever.

If I had known, I would've clung to him. I would've memorized his voice, his smell, his laugh. But instead, all I have are flashes. A smile. The way he tied his shoes. The way he used to kiss the top of my head and call me "little fish."

I closed the album slowly, pressing my hand to the cover as if that would keep the memories from slipping away.
Everyone says I have his eyes. Sea-glass green. Bright, almost otherworldly.

I used to doubt them. Now, looking at that photo... I believe it.

And I wonder what it's like for my mom. To look at me and see him every day. To have twenty years of love trapped in a face that's not his—but isn't entirely mine, either.

The world keeps spinning, even when people are gone. That's the cruelest part.

But maybe this—this little piece of him inside me—is my way of keeping him alive. Maybe it's not about remembering every detail. Maybe it's just about carrying forward what you can.

Even when the voice fades, and the memories get blurry, his eyes are still here.

Still me.