The sun has dipped behind the trees, casting long, crooked shadows in the backyard. The air was unusually still, heavy, like it held secrets that didn't want to be spoken aloud. Rose stood by the window of her bedroom, her eyes scanning the overgrown grass below. Weeds had swollen the flowers, her once used to tended, and the rusted swing creaked softly in the wind – there was no wind.
Then she saw him again.
Mr. Whitlock.
He was standing near the fence, half – hidden behind the twisted trunk of old elm tree. Same as before. Watching. Always watching.
Rose didn't move. She knew better than to startle. His head tilted slightly, as if he sensed her gaze. His pale, wrinkled face was expressionless, eyes hard beneath the brim of his battered hat. Most days he would just stand there, silence as a grave, but sometimes – just sometimes – he'd take a step forward, as though he was about to cross a line.
But he never did. Not yet.
Rose fingers tightened around the curtain, her breath shallow. She didn't speak – not since the night of the accident. But she had started drawing again. It was the only way to sense what was happening. Of what she'd seen. She hadn't shown Aunt Marian her new sketches. Not these ones.
Behind her, the floor creaked.
She turned. Aunt Marian stood in the doorway, holding a laundry basket. Her eyes which ones looked tired but kind, now seemed.....sharper. Watching. Measuring.
"You're still in your room?" She asked, forcing a smile. "It's getting late, sweetheart. You should come down. I made your favorite – chicken stew."
Rose stared at her. Aunt Marian had never made chicken stew before. Not once in all the summers she and Jake had stayed here.
"Is something wrong?" Marian asked, setting the basket down and stepping inside. "You've been quiet lately."
As if Rose ever wasn't.
Aunt Marian eyes flickered towards the window. For a second, her lips pressed into a thin line.
"Is he out there again?" She asked, her voice dropping.
Rose nodded slowly.
Aunt Marian exhaled through her nose. "Don't worry about Mr. Whitlock. He's just... peculiar. Lives alone. Probably didn't even realize how he looked at people."
Rose didn't believe that. Mr. Whitlock knew exactly how he looked. And he knew she had seen him, the night of her parents accident.
Or did he?
"I'll have a word with him." Marian said softly. But there was something in her tone – flat, unsure, that made Rose stomach twist.
She waited until her aunt left the room before reaching under her pillow. Her sketchbook was there. She flipped through it slowly. Pages filled with dark ink lines, jagged trees, silhouette of a man dragging something heavy through the woods. A hand reaching out. A shoe left behind. A scarf twisted on the tree.
And recently.... she had drawn her aunt. Standing at the kitchen door that night, staring into the darkness, her face half lit by the moonlight. The look in her eyes hadn't been fear. It had been recognition.
Another page.
Mr. Whitlock at the window. Watching her. Always watching.
She paused on the latest sketch. It wasn't from memory. It was from just two nights ago – she had woken up suddenly, sensing someone outside. And there he was again, not at the fence, but closer. Too close. Standing by the garden gate. Staring up at her window. His eyes drawn too black, too hollow, as if she hadn't captured a man – but something else entirely.
Downstairs, she heard the soft chime of the back door opening.
Jake was still at work. Does he even knew what was going on?
Rose crept to the downstairs, staying low. A slice of light spilled from the kitchen into the hallway and Marian's voice drifted faintly.
"...you shouldn't come here."
A paise. Then a deep murmur – low, gravelly. Mr. Whitlock.
Rose's breath caught.
"I told you she's starting to remember ," Aunt Marian whispered. "She's drawing again. I saw the book under her pillow."
"You said she didn't talk," Whitlock growled.
"She doesn't," Marian's snapped. "But pictures speak. Especially hers."
There was a silence that stretch like a wire between them.
"Than you know what must be done." Whitlock said at last.
Rose backed away, her heart pounding in her ears. Her legs trembling.
They knew.
They both knew.
And now... they're afraid of what she might say.
Or draw.