At the top of the hill stood one of Woodbury's many neighborhoods. A cul-de-sac; one whose main source of light at this hour came from the porch of little Mrs. Miller's house. The porchlight gleamed onto the street and yet failed to illuminate the cookie-cutter houses that wrapped along the semi-circle. All except one.

In this one small house and behind its deep-colored door, was a young man, who sat at the top of the staircase overlooking the entrance. He was thin and disheveled, dressed in his house sweats and an oversized shirt he'd use to sleep in. He watched, with a fixed gaze, as the lights shut off throughout the house.

For in front of him stood a towering figure who eclipsed the entrance behind it. Its hands were placed gently on the top of the coat rack. The figure, cloaked in black and red from its tight-fitting apparel, was more than aware of its audience.

There was only the faintest light in the foyer that exposed its unkempt facial hair and presence. This red and black mass stood still, almost as if it were contemplating giving some words of comfort. Its hands pulled on the canvas coat hanging from the top rack and put it on gracefully in one motion. Words were spoken, but they were almost imperceptible as if rehearsed and then staged, like a silent black-and-white film added in post.

His father turned his back to him once more. His mouth moved as if there were things left to say, but the words never traveled. The young man, a silent observer, watched as the front door closed in front of him. The door shut without a click or a snap and only in that way did it give the young man comfort.

From the corner of his eyes, he could see how the faintest light from the moon snuck in; like stowaways, through the blinds in the living room window. Greeted by the moving figures hidden in the corner of the room, silhouettes of creatures that inhabited the house; only visible by the lights' presence, and yet a product of their existence. Stoically aware of the figures that moved in the dark, the young man stood up, and with great caution began his journey up the stairs.

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The house moaned with each step he took in his climb. It had stored all their shared history in the crevices and cracks in the floorboards, pleading with each creak it made. Once he entered his bedroom he crept toward his window and slid back the curtain only a few inches. He watched from the corner of the window as his father got into his car. The hum from the engine starting had almost drowned out from the pitter-patter of the escalating drizzle outside. The car then peeled out of the driveway and looked almost like a blue streak through his tired eyes. There was a certain familiarity to it all; this young man had rehearsed this role before. As Clive prepared to step back from the window he noticed a figure moving towards the house. A figure, he presumed, who lived in the house across the street; obfuscated by the lack of street lights on the block. The moonlight glistened on their long blonde hair, as they pulled a hood over their head.

"Clive," they called out as they approached his house.

"Clive, we need to talk," they said, now approaching his front door. In that instance, the young man had recalled something he wished to forget. The doorbell now rang and Clive pulled back from his window, frozen. He reaches for the light switch and is immediately greeted with a knock.

"Please don't pretend you're sleeping, I can see the light from here." It was a soft voice, strained and familiar to him. Clive moved to the bottom step of the staircase and sat watching the door as she knocked.

"Please Clive, I want to talk." Her voice sent shockwaves through the floorboards which left Clive helpless in its wake.

Clive had found himself floating in the spaces that lived between a second; it was only in these remains that Clive felt he was granted an opportunity to amend.

Clive pulled himself up from the step and planted his foot on the wooden floorboard in front of him. There was a hesitation in his walk, growing more confident as the decision cemented in his mind. Each step felt like the first, almost as if the door were being pulled further and further away. The faster he jogged, the longer the distance, until it was an almost endless hallway with the faintest image of his front door glowing in front of him. Her voice now echoed, a memory, "Please, we need to talk. You owe me at least that much."

If you were to ask Clive now, what it all meant; he'd tell you, he was where he felt he'd always been.