The Silent Street at Daybreak

Only right before the world awakens is there a certain quiet. a moment of silence during which everything holds its breath, seemingly unable to face the day's responsibilities again. At that time, under a bruised purple sky, Thomas walked down the quiet street of his youth, unchanged but completely changed.

He had no intention of going back. Actually, he had vowed not to. Not with his brother's fate behind him. Not until their father's silence became anything other than grief and his mother's eyes became lifeless. However, fate is not without irony. Three weeks ago, an anonymous, untraceable letter arrived with the single sentence, "You left something behind."

The paper of the frail envelope was the hue of rotten bones. No address for return. No stamps. Just that mysterious phrase and a street name he had not mentioned out loud in more than ten years:

Lane Elderidge.

And so here he stood, the town still asleep, or at least feigning to be, footsteps resonating softly across wet cobblestones. Like old friends snuggled against the cold, houses leaned inward. The windows gazed vacantly into the waning darkness. In a language he could not quite recall, trees stretched over the lane, their leafless fingers intertwined, whispering secrets.

There had been no change. The most peculiar aspect was that. Overgrown roots continued to trip the cracked sidewalk next to Mrs. Delaney's house. Although the light bulb had long since faded to a ghostly pulse, the corroded lamppost on the corner of Ivy and Elderidge continued to throb with a flickering light. The air even had the same smell, a combination of damp wood, loamy soil, and a slight hint of ash.

Nevertheless, everything felt different. emptied out. It seemed as though the town had been meticulously reconstructed from memory, but the elements that made it come to life were lost.

Thomas stopped in front of the ancient bakery, which had dust on its windows now. He recalled entering through the rear entrance with his brother, Alex. They would pretend to be pirates rationing treasure while sitting behind the flour sacks and stealing stale croissants. Like Alex usually laughed—like he thought nothing could harm them—Thomas could almost hear his shrill, rebellious laugh reverberating in the silence.

In actuality, something had.

In 2012, Alex disappeared. He was there one minute, sprinting forward on this very street in the morning fog, and then he was gone. Do not yell. Not a trace. There were only tracks leading to the corner, and then nothing. It destroyed the family. It split Thomas in two.

With the weight of memories weighing down on him like the humidity of an impending storm, he resumed his trek.

The sun was just starting to rise, its pale fingers tracing the skyline and kissing rooftops with the softest of golden strokes. Elderidge Lane, however, did not appear to appreciate it. Shadows were there longer than they ought to have been. It did not feel warm in the light. Someone seemed to be standing just out of reach.

When Thomas got to number 23, he paused.

His former home.

He mounted the porch stairs, which were still creaking. Long curling sections of paint peeled off the railings. The once-bright blue entrance door now appeared skeletal and sun-bleached. When he turned the handle, it yielded without effort, even though he half expected it to be locked.

The hush was thicker inside. It was more than just the lack of sound; there was something else present. Someone is listening.

Everything was covered in a fine layer of forgotten dust. The walls still had a few picture frames, but their pictures were gone. White sheets hung like funeral clothes, furniture stood like sentinels. At 7:23, the grandfather clock remained motionless in the hallway, its hands frozen.

Alex vanished at that moment.

Thomas's throat became constricted. He walked carefully, as though every step may shatter the fragile world all around him. The teacup his mother always used was cold and chipped on the counter in the kitchen. The refrigerator's interior was empty, and the door was slightly open. He did not bother to look in the cupboard.

With every groan beneath his feet, he ascended the steps, releasing a memory from its tomb. Alex's room was at the end of the hallway. The door was open, just as it had been the day he vanished. Everything was sepia-preserved inside.

The linens were taut and the twin bed was made. There was a baseball glove on the windowsill. On the floor were stacks of comics. The surface of the glass of water by the bed was unaltered.

Thomas extended his hand, and a whisper reached his ears as his fingers touched the glass.

He stopped.

It was not a stranger's voice. It was not envisioned. Right behind him came Alex, as obvious as a bell and incredibly genuine. His heart thumping, he turned to see the room deserted.

However, something had changed. The air was more dense. The illumination had changed. A shiver ran down his back.

No answer.

He entered the room and slowly turned around, looking for a sign, a trick of the light, something. Then he noticed it: a folded piece of paper that had never been on the desk before. It was scribbled with his name.

His fingers were shaking when he opened it.

"I remain here. Locate me.

He gasped. Alex's handwriting was used. Definitely. However, how? After all these years?

He raised his head. The room was silent and dry, but the mirror on the wall was foggy. Letters appeared in the condensation as he approached, seemingly composed by an unseen hand.

The basement.

Since they left, Thomas had not been down there. After Alex vanished, his parents kept it hidden because it was simply too terrible to confront. Now, however, an invisible force pulled at his legs, pushing him down.

Slowly he went down, the stairs creaking under his feet. The stench of old secrets and mildew filled the basement. Unpredictable shadows resembled wraiths on the walls as a single lightbulb swung from the ceiling.

The room appeared to be empty at first. Just toys that have been forgotten, cartons, and outdated furniture. Then he saw the square in the floor, a panel that was a little off-alignment. a trap door.

He stooped to pry it open. Darkness returned the stare.

A slender ladder led down to nothing.

Thomas did not pause long enough to descend.

It was chilly down below. Too chilly. It seemed as if the air had been stagnant for decades. The universe transformed as soon as his boots touched the earth.

It was no longer a basement.

It was a street.

A shadow of Elderidge Lane, but not it. In perpetual twilight, a beautiful mirror. Like silk, the fog rolled past. Though they were more skeleton and bleak, the houses were identical. Then he spotted them—statue-like beings, motionless, strewn about in the fog.

Wide-eyed and motionless, as though caught in the middle of a game. They scream silently, their mouths opening.

With his breath trapped in his throat, Thomas walked among them. They all appeared to be echoes or impressions rather than actual ones. Then he caught sight of him.

Wearing the same hoodie he had on the day he disappeared, he stood barefoot at the far end of the lane. For an instant, nothing else mattered as his gaze remained fixed on Thomas.

With an unattainable hope, Thomas sprinted in his direction.

However, the world resisted him more the closer he came. The mist grew heavier. The temperature dropped. An incomprehensible, angry sound arose, like a thousand whispers.

Then there was movement in the shadows.

Tall, twisted objects with too-long limbs and blank features were shapes that had separated from the fog. Silently and fluidly, they slithered closer.

Alex's voice broke through the clamor. "Do not stop!"

Thomas shoved ahead, avoiding the darkness. Reality buckled, the ground shifting beneath his feet. He ducked and lunged when one of the figures reached for him, and then—

He took Alex's hand in his.

The world fell apart.

A burst of light appeared behind his eyes. The murmurs cried out. The fog sent out a cry. Everything let out a scream.

Then—

Thomas was in number 23's backyard when he opened his eyes. Gold was dripping over the ground like honey as the sun rose, bright and dazzling. Birds sang.

Alex was also present.

Breathing, solid, real.

He appeared somewhat older than the day he disappeared. As if time had pushed him along but had not completely embraced him. He had tears in his eyes.

"You located me," he remarked.

With tears running down his cheeks, Thomas collapsed to his knees. He felt entire again for the first time in years as he stretched out and embraced his brother.

Now that morning had arrived, they strolled along Elderidge Lane together. Sunlight glinted on the windows. The trees were disturbed by a breeze. There was a dog barking somewhere.

Thomas surveyed the area. "Did it happen?"

Alex gave a nod. "Somewhere else. A place that has been forgotten. It thrives on loneliness and memory. I was confined. I was unsure if you would ever return.

Thomas gave his hand a squeeze. "I did not either."

The windows of the old bakery were spotless this time when they passed it. The air was filled with the aroma of freshly baked bread. In the window was a fresh sign that read, "Open at Dawn."

Thomas looked back as they came to the end of the lane. The roadway was no longer quiet as it shimmered in the sunshine. Not possessed by ghosts.

They had more questions than answers, he knew. The letter. The mirror. The universe of shadows. It was all illogical.

Now, however, they had time. and one another.

And that was sufficient at times.