The burnt-out apartment smelled of old smoke, scorched wood, and a kind of lingering sorrow. Connie stepped over fallen beams and crumbled drywall, holding her coat close as her boots crunched over glass. The second-floor unit was half-collapsed, barely standing, but she knew this place like a memory she never owned. She hadn't lived here — not really — but she'd visited enough to know who had.
Her skin was soft-toned and flawless, kissed with just enough warmth to hint at her Korean heritage. She looked young. Too young for the things she'd done. The kind of face you'd trust at a glance—and regret by the second blink.
But it was her eyes that made people flinch.
Green. Vivid. Unnatural. They weren't the color of spring or meadows. They were the kind of green that glowed under low light, that stared too long, that caught lies mid-sentence and swallowed them whole. Her gaze didn't look at you—it invaded. There was nothing gentle in it. Only obsession. Hunger. Calculation. Like she already knew where your bones would snap.
Her hair was black, slightly wavy, and often messy, like she'd just crawled out of bed after a knife fight. Sometimes tied in high twin buns or left to fall around her face, it framed her porcelain features like a warped anime character brought to life
A single cracked locket dangled from her neck, always tucked beneath her shirt like a secret. No one touched it. No one asked.
And she never blinked when she hurt someone.
Because to Connie, pain wasn't punishment.
It was intimacy.
She wrapped her coat tighter around her thin frame, the Chicago chill finding its way through every ripped seam. Her fingers, half-shaking from cold, half from nerves, rifled through a half-burnt drawer, tossing aside warped photo frames and melted plastic.
Something had to be here. A notebook. A piece of clothing. A picture. Anything that tied her to him.
"I just need proof," she whispered to herself, her voice hoarse. "Something to show he was here. Something that matters."
She moved toward the closet where Mrs. Palpanini used to keep her duffel bags—military surplus, always zipped tight, always locked. The closet door was half-hung, hanging by a thread. She forced it open, coughing as soot puffed out. There, buried under charred blankets, was something.
Connie dropped to her knees and pulled it free—a fire-blackened lockbox, the metal warped and blistered. She pried at it with a bent coat hanger until the lid gave with a screech. Inside, barely intact, was a scorched envelope, the edges curled, but the writing visible:
"For Aiden. Only if I'm gone."
Her breath caught.
Mrs. P had written this. Connie had never seen it before. Her fingers hovered over the envelope like it might burn her, even now.
Then, the sound of footsteps echoed down the hallway, far too loud to be the wind.
She froze, clutching the envelope to her chest, eyes wide, breath shallow.
Someone else was here.
Connie ducked back into the shadows of the half-collapsed bedroom as the heavy steps creaked down the hallway. Her heart pounded in her ears, one hand clutched around the scorched envelope, the other gripping the rusted lockbox like a shield.
The door creaked open. She held her breath.
Two figures stepped through the haze—scruffy, gaunt, wrapped in mismatched layers of donated coats and scarves. One of them, a man with a tattered army cap and a limp, peered around the room. His eyes passed over her without focus.
"Just keep moving, man," the other muttered. "Ain't nothin' left in here."
"But this was the kid's room," the first one said. "The quiet one. He stayed in here before the fire, remember?"
Connie's breath caught.
"He was really polite," the man continued, more to himself than anything. "Always tried to fix the doors. Gave me his blanket once. Good kid. Quiet, but sharp. Real sharp."
They moved on, their footsteps retreating slowly down the hall, their voices fading into the clatter of a broken stairwell.
When silence settled again, Connie stood up slowly and walked down the hall to Aiden's room.
She remembered the way Mrs. Palpanini would yell down the stairs at him — that hard old woman with her iron voice and her soft heart. She hated Connie. Knew what she was. A roach in the walls. A shadow that slithered behind Aiden like mold. But she didn't get it. She didn't see what he was.
He was light. He was out. He was hope.
And he had left Connie in the dark.
She clutched the shoebox like it was a holy relic. It still smelled like him. She opened the lid, careful, reverent. Inside were singed notebooks, corners of photos with faces half-burned away. She found a broken charm bracelet — his, maybe, or something he'd taken. A cracked Game Boy cartridge with his name still Sharpied on the back. The plastic was melted, but it was his.
"He's not dead," she whispered. "No way. No way. You're too smart, baby."
She rocked on her heels, eyes wide, a crooked smile twisting her lips.
"They think you're gone. Burned. But I know you. I see you. You're somewhere. You're hiding. That's okay. That's okay. I'd hide, too, if they came for me. But you don't have to hide from me, Aiden. Never me."
Her voice cracked, and something in her broke open. She dropped the box and fell to her knees again, crawling through the debris, grabbing at ruined pieces like they might become whole again.
"They took you from me," she muttered. "The fire. The court. That bitch Mrs. P. They all did. They tore us apart."
Tears streaked her face, mixing with soot. Her fingers closed around a scrap of his old hoodie, burnt halfway up the sleeve. She clutched it to her chest and laughed — a hollow, raw sound.
"But I'm gonna find you. I swear. I don't care who's got you now. I don't care what town you ran to. You need me, Aiden. You always did. I know things you don't. I kept you safe back then. I can keep you safe again."
Her eyes fixed on a scorched corner of the wall where his bed used to be. "I'll come for you, baby boy. Just wait. I'm almost there."