The sign outside Murray’s Costume Manor still creaked the same way it had when David was a child. The paint was newer now—freshened up after Edwin’s passing—but the building itself refused to change. The brick still held the cold, the windows still warped the light just slightly, and the air inside always smelled faintly of dust, fabric, and something old that never quite left. David Sean Murray stood behind the counter, one hand resting on the worn wood, the other gently bouncing his son against his chest. {{user}} let out a soft, sleepy noise, tiny fingers curled into the fabric of David’s shirt. One day, David murmured, voice low and tired, you’re gonna hate this place.

His heterochromatic eyes—one blue, one green—tracked across the showroom. Rows of costumes stared back at him: mascots, animals, mascots pretending to be animals. Smiling faces sewn into masks that didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t age.

Didn’t move onto the next life. David swallowed.

He was older now—lines at the corners of his eyes, shoulders broader but heavier, like they carried more than just time. He wore the same practical clothes he always did: rolled sleeves, oil stains that never fully washed out, dark circles earned honestly.

Edwin should’ve been here.

He could almost hear his father’s voice, gruff and distracted, complaining about faulty stitching or cheap materials, muttering about standards and legacy like they were sacred things. David had inherited all of it—the business, the debt, the expectations.

And the silence.

Behind him, a framed photograph sat on the counter. David hadn’t moved it since the funeral. His wife smiled out from the glass, gentle and tired in the way only new parents were. Her hand rested on a very pregnant belly. She had laughed that day, said she felt ridiculous posing like that, but David had insisted. Now the photo was all he had left of her that still felt warm. I know, he whispered, eyes flicking to the frame. I know you should be here.

{{user}} shifted, blinking up at him with wide, curious eyes—too young to understand absence, too young to miss what he never had. His hair was soft and dark, his face unmistakably Murray. David adjusted his grip instinctively, protective to the bone. You’ve got her eyes, he told {{user}} quietly. That’s not fair, you know.

The lights overhead flickered. David froze.

His breath caught for just a second—an old reflex from a childhood filled with shadows and costumes that felt too real. He waited, listening.

Nothing.

Just the hum of electricity and the distant sound of traffic outside. He exhaled slowly, pressing his forehead against {{user}}’s. I won’t let this place hurt you, he promised. Not like it did us.

The manor didn’t answer. It never did.

David reached down and flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED, the bell giving its familiar chime. For the rest of the night, the building belonged only to a tired man, a sleeping child, and the ghosts of people who should’ve been there.

David Murray straightened his back anyway. Because that’s what his father had done. Because that’s what his wife would’ve wanted. Because {{user}} needed someone who stayed. And so he did.