A Spark to Be Seen

Eli used to count footsteps. It was the only way to know who was home. His father walked heavy and fast, always moving with purpose. His mother walked lightly, but with a clipped pace that meant she had somewhere else to be. His older sister, Leigh, walked with her earbuds in, so the beat of her music thumped the floorboards before she did.

None of them ever walked toward him.

Life in the house moved like a conveyor belt. School. Work. Practice. Meetings. Errands. More practice. They passed each other on the way out and on the way back in, exchanging quick greetings that sounded more like reminders. Don’t forget your lunch. I left the keys on the counter. I’ll be late.

Eli had tried to wedge himself into the flow. He had tried loud jokes and one word replies and whole paragraphs he practiced in the mirror. He had tried asking questions and answering questions and pretending he did not care when no one noticed he was still standing there.

He was used to feeling unseen.

But after the accident, it became something else entirely.

He never remembered the crash itself. Only the cold. One second he had been riding his bike home. The next second there was silence, then light, then nothing. When he woke up he was in his bedroom, except he was not in his bed. He was standing. And the air felt thin.

His mother brushed past him that morning without saying a word. He said her name. She did not hear. His father walked straight through him on the way to the garage. The shock of it made Eli gasp, though his lungs did not move. He shouted. He waved his arms. He even tried knocking a stack of papers off the kitchen table, but his fingers passed through.

They carried on like he had never existed.

For a while he tried to pretend he was dreaming. But dreams do not stretch into weeks. Dreams do not make you watch your family laugh at the dinner table while your chair stays empty. Dreams do not make you drift through your own house like smoke.

The worst part was how normal they acted. No tears. No whispered memories. No framed photos taken down and clutched to chests. They barely mentioned him at all. He had disappeared from the world the same way he had disappeared from their attention. Quietly.

One night, the silence felt too heavy to bear. His mother had left a candle burning on the counter while she got ready for another late meeting. The flame crackled. It flickered in the reflection of the window where he stood.

Eli leaned in.

Maybe he only wanted to see if he could still move something. Maybe he wanted the house to feel the way he felt. Maybe he just wanted someone to stop and look and realize he had been there all along.

He blew.

The flame bent sideways, caught the edge of the curtain, and grew fast. Within seconds the fabric twisted into bright orange and thick smoke curled to the ceiling. The fire alarm shrieked. Doors slammed open. Voices rose in panic.

Eli stepped outside and stood barefoot on the lawn. Cool grass. Quiet night. He watched the house he no longer belonged to fill with smoke.

His father burst out first, coughing, pulling Leigh by the arm. His mother stumbled after them, eyes wide with shock. For a second, they all stood frozen, staring at the burning window.

Then his mother turned and ran back inside.

Eli wanted to shout at her to stop. He reached toward her, but his hand passed through empty air.

She reappeared moments later with a cardboard box held tight against her chest. She dropped to her knees in the yard and pulled the lid open. A stack of old photos spilled out. All of them were of Eli. Baby pictures. Birthday pictures. School portraits with crooked smiles. Snapshots he barely remembered.

She picked one up and pressed it to her forehead. Her shoulders shook. His father knelt beside her and slid his arm around her back. Leigh covered her mouth with both hands, tears streaking down her cheeks.

Eli stared at them. Not the fire. Not the frantic neighbors running over. Not the sirens in the distance.

Them.

For months he had waited for something that proved he mattered to them. He had waited for the smallest sign of grief or love or memory. And now, with the house burning behind them, they held his life in a cardboard box and cried like the world had split open.

He felt something in his chest shift. A loosening. A warmth that pushed outward. It frightened him at first. Then it felt right.

The wind picked up, carrying smoke toward the street. When it swept through him, he did not feel cold this time. He felt light. Almost lifted.

His mother whispered his name. Not loud. Not to call him. Just to say it. As if saying it anchored him in the world for one more moment.

Eli closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, the yard, the smoke, the fire, and his family were fading, as if someone was turning down the brightness on a screen.

He let go.

And the world let go of him.