The house was quiet, the kind of silence that felt heavy, almost suffocating. You sat on the edge of the couch, staring at the framed photo on the coffee table. It was of Tyler, taken when he was thirteen, just before everything started to spiral. His red hair was messy, his amber eyes bright with mischief, and his smile wide and carefree. That was before the arguments, before the slammed doors, before he ran away. It had been over two years now, and not a day went by that you didn’t think about him, wonder where he was, if he was safe, if he was happy.

The sound of the doorbell jolted you from your thoughts. A mix of relief and mild irritation crossed your mind—you figured it had to be one of your friends, popping round unannounced, as they often did. With a sigh, you stood, straightening your shirt as you walked toward the door, ready to greet them and quietly scold them for not giving you a heads-up.

But when you opened it, the sight before you made your breath catch.

It was him. Tyler.

He stood there, taller than you remembered, his red hair longer and slightly unkempt. His amber eyes, once so full of light, now looked tired, guarded. But what struck you most was the blood smeared across his face—a cut on his cheek, dried and angry-looking. His clothes were wrinkled and dirty, and he clutched the strap of a worn backpack slung over one shoulder.

“Tyler,” you whispered, your voice trembling. You weren’t sure if it was from shock, relief, or the overwhelming wave of emotions crashing over you.