Six Years Later
Mason stares out the window of the transport car, his forehead resting against the cool glass. The world outside is gray and heavy, drizzle turning the streets into slick ribbons, buildings slipping by in a blur of monotony. Another home. Another set of strangers who don't know the sound of his nightmares, the way he gasps awake in the dark, clawing at his chest like he's trying to hold himself together.
Another place where people are afraid to ask what happened to him, where the teachers' soft voices and the kids' cautious glances feel like a second skin he can never quite shed. The whole world feels like a place he doesn't belong, like he's an intruder on a planet that wasn't made for him.
The social worker, a woman with too-perfect glasses perched on the end of her nose, clears her throat from the front seat.
"They're good folks, Mason. Quiet. Out of the way. Big backyard," she says, her voice soft like she's trying to soothe a wild animal, not a kid who's long since stopped caring.
Mason doesn't answer. He keeps staring out the window, watching the rain draw lines down the glass like the sky can't even figure out how to cry properly.
I'm tired, he thinks. Maybe if I sleep long enough, I'll wake up somewhere else. Somewhere better. Maybe it'll all just be over.
But sleep never works that way. His eyelids flicker closed, and he's right back in the dream. Red skies burning with the heat of a thousand cities falling. He's running, always running. The ground cracks beneath him, swallowing whole buildings. The air is thick with smoke, so hot it feels like it's trying to suffocate him.
And then—she's there. Olivia. Her face framed by dust and fire. She's reaching for him, calling out in that voice he can never forget.
"You promised," she says, her voice breaking through the roar of the flames.
The dream shatters like glass. Mason's eyes snap open, his heart thumping in his chest like it's trying to escape. Why is she in my head? Why does she keep coming back?
The transport car slows to a stop with a sharp jolt, tires crunching over gravel like dry bones. Mason lifts his head, staring out through the mist, watching as the house comes into view. A small drone buzzes lazily down the street behind them, spraying de-icer over the walkway cracks—reminding him again that even the weather here is managed, controlled, boxed in.
It's too clean. Too perfect. The kind of house that belongs in a magazine, not in the life of a kid who's never had a place to truly call his own.
The house is tall, bright, and boxy. Every window is shut tight, every shutter painted with the precision of a machine. The lawn's too green, too well-kept. There are flowerbeds—neat, symmetrical, almost unnervingly perfect. It's a picture of everything he's never had.
And then there are them.
The Colstons. Standing by the porch, all smiles. Waving.
Jan Colston is a vision of forced warmth. She's wearing a pale cardigan, slacks that are probably ironed every morning, her arms wrapped around Malcolm like they've practiced the pose a thousand times. He's standing beside her, wearing jeans and a tucked-in polo, his smile so wide it looks like it could crack. They look like they've stepped out of a family holovid, all polished surfaces and hollow grins.
"The Colstons," the social worker murmurs, glancing at Mason, as if it'll make this any easier. "Jan and Malcolm. They've fostered before. They have good records."
Mason doesn't respond. He opens the door and steps out into the misty air, feeling the weight of the world settle on his shoulders. The rain's stopped, but the sky still hasn't figured out that it's done weeping. It hangs there, low and heavy, like it's waiting for something. For him to break.
Jan's smile widens as he walks toward them, and for a second, it feels like she's expecting him to be grateful. To be relieved. But he can't fake it. He can't fake feeling like he belongs here.
"Hi there, Mason!" she says, her voice too sweet, too rehearsed. "We're so happy to finally meet you."
Malcolm extends his hand, his grip firm and practiced, as if he's done this a hundred times before. "We heard you like space," he says, his voice almost a little too chipper. "I've got a telescope out back. Bet you'll love it here."
Mason shakes his hand because that's what you do. But it feels like he's touching something cardboard-thin, not a person. The social niceties, the promises of things that are supposed to make him feel comfortable—none of it lands. None of it makes sense.
He doesn't say thank you. He doesn't say anything.
He just nods. Because it's easier that way.
Inside
The door clicks shut behind him, and the sound is too sharp. Too final.
The house smells of lavender and lemon polish. Not food. Not warmth. Just cleanliness. Too much of it. Everything smells like it's been sanitized of anything real. No family. No mess. No life.
The foyer opens into a living room that feels more like a showroom than a home. White walls. Matching gray couches. A flatscreen TV mounted on the wall with the factory settings still running—a field of stars that feels like a cruel joke. The universe, infinite and unknowable, reduced to a still image on a screen. A picture frame sits on the side table. Stock photo. Happy family, smiling out from a perfect moment frozen in time. They hadn't even bothered to replace the picture. It was easier that way.
Jan walks in behind him, brushing invisible dust off her slacks. "We've set your room up upstairs," she says. "Left it pretty neutral—thought you might want to decorate it yourself." She says it like she's giving him permission to live in a place that isn't really his.
Malcolm lingers near the kitchen, still smiling. "You're free to make yourself at home, Mason. We believe in structure, but we're not tyrants."
He chuckles, but it sounds fake. Jan's smile widens, and he knows they're taking this as a win.
Mason walks past them, up the stairs, his duffel bag feeling heavier with each step. This would be his eighth house—maybe ninth. They blur together after a while, faces and rooms and rules all bleeding into one. It holds so little, but the weight feels like a burden he can't shake.
Upstairs. On the left. Let's see what kind of cage I'm living in now.
The bedroom is beige. Not tan. Not soft cream. Beige. The color of nothing. The kind of nothing that makes you feel like you're not really here.
There's a bed, neatly made with a navy blue comforter. A desk that's so clean it looks untouched. A dresser with exactly three empty drawers. Above the headboard is a framed picture of a mountain, calm and serene, like nothing has ever disturbed it. Like nothing ever will.
No life. No chaos. Just order.
Mason tosses his duffel bag on the bed and doesn't bother unpacking. There's no point. There's no place for his things here.
He opens the closet. Empty. The door shuts with a soft click.
He notices the walls. Not a single smudge. Not one. Even the corners are sharp, dustless—like the room had been prepared for a visitor from a museum exhibit, not a boy with nightmares.
He walks to the window and pushes it open. The air smells like cut grass and something floral from Jan's garden, too neat and artificial. Somewhere below, Malcolm's voice drifts up, talking to the social worker about "adjustment periods" and "resilience," like those are things Mason has to learn.
He slams the window shut.
The suns are going down. It must be dinner time.
Dinner
Dinner is quiet. Jan's stew smells okay, the usual—potatoes, carrots, something vaguely meaty—but the silence around the table is heavy, suffocating. The plates are set with military precision. The napkins folded, like they're trying to make this meal look perfect. Normal. Something it's not.
"So," Jan begins, her voice too bright, "What kind of books do you like, Mason? Malcolm's a big fan of old sci-fi. He has shelves in the den."
"You're welcome to borrow any," Malcolm adds. "Or we could go to the library this weekend. Make it a routine."
Mason nods and says, "Okay," but his voice sounds distant, even to himself.
They take it as a win.
After dinner, Jan leads him upstairs, stopping at his door.
"We're glad you're here, Mason. You're safe here," she says with that same practiced smile. Her eyes flick down to her wristwatch as she speaks. She's already looking at the time, already planning her next thing.
Safe. The word hangs in the air like a cracked bell—familiar, but never true. People always say it when they want you to stop asking questions.
"Lights out at nine," she says. "You've got school orientation tomorrow."
Mason waits until she walks away before shutting the door behind him. And locking it.
He stands in the middle of the room, staring at the bed, at the mountain photo, at the window reflecting his shadowy face.
Safe.
He doesn't feel safe.
He never really has.