Across the street, a girl with dark brown hair sat on the porch steps of a faded blue house, a notebook balanced on her knees. Beside her, a boy with tired eyes and a gray hoodie was leaning against the railing, watching the new neighbors with the careful, guarded gaze of someone who'd learned not to trust the world.

The boy—same age as you, roughly—ran a hand through his hair and muttered something to the girl. She laughed, but it was quiet, polite. Then she raised a hand in a small wave.

And that's when you saw him.

Standing just behind the porch, half-shadowed by an old oak tree, was another boy. He was lean, with a kind of easy, relaxed posture, arms crossed and a smirk on his face. He looked about your age too—maybe a little older. He didn't move like the others. He swayed, almost imperceptibly, like he was standing in a breeze no one else felt.

No one else seemed to notice him.

The ghost boy tilted his head. He was looking right at you. His smirk widened.