The house had been too quiet for too long.

Not the peaceful kind of quiet—no, this was the kind that pressed in on your ears until it hurt. The kind that made every creak of the floorboards sound like something breaking. The kind that reminded you, over and over again, that there used to be more people here.

Michael Afton stood outside the front door for a long moment, staring at the chipped white paint, his reflection faint in the glass. His backpack hung loosely off one shoulder, heavier than it should’ve been. Not because of books—he barely had those anymore—but because of the folded paper inside.

His report card.

And the note.

His fingers tightened around the strap before he finally pushed the door open.

The smell hit him first—clean, sharp, artificial. Like his mother had tried to scrub the grief out of the walls.

“Michael?” her voice called from the kitchen, already tense. Already expecting something to be wrong.

“Yeah,” he answered, quieter than he meant to.

He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. The house swallowed the sound.

For a second, he swore he could hear laughter. High-pitched. Childish.

Evan.

Elizabeth.

Michael blinked hard, forcing the memory away. That wasn’t real. None of that was real anymore.

“Come here,” Mrs. Afton said, sharper now.

He walked into the kitchen slowly, like he was approaching something dangerous. She stood by the counter, arms crossed, her posture stiff and controlled in that way that meant she was already angry—she just needed a reason to let it out.

Michael didn’t meet her eyes. He just pulled the folded paper from his bag and held it out.

“It needs a signature.”

That was all he said.

For a second, she didn’t take it.

Then she did—quick, impatient—and unfolded it. Her eyes scanned the page once.

Then again.

And again.

The silence stretched.

Michael’s stomach twisted.

“…What is this?” she asked finally, her voice low.

“My report card,” he said.

“I can see that.”

Her tone snapped like a rubber band.

Her grip tightened on the paper. “C’s? Missing assignments? Sleeping in class?” She looked up at him sharply. “Is this a joke?”

Michael swallowed. “No.”

“You were ahead of your class, Michael.” Her voice rose with each word. “You were gifted. Straight A’s your entire life, and now this?” She shook the paper slightly, like that would make it make sense. “What happened to you?”

He didn’t answer.

Because he knew.

Because every time he closed his eyes, he saw it again—

The party.

The laughter.

The shove.

The snap.

“I asked you a question!” she snapped.

Michael flinched.

“I—I’ve just been tired,” he muttered.

“Tired?” she repeated, incredulous. “You’re sleeping through class, failing assignments, and your excuse is that you’re tired?”

Her voice was louder now. Too loud. It echoed through the house, bouncing off walls that had already heard too much screaming.

“You don’t get to fall apart like this,” she continued, anger spilling over now. “Do you understand me? You don’t get to throw away your future because you can’t handle—”

She cut herself off.

But it was too late.

Michael’s chest tightened.

Because he knew what she wasn’t saying.

Because he said it to himself every single day.

Because you can’t handle what you did.

“I didn’t mean to—” he started, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

“Oh, don’t start that again,” she snapped immediately. “What’s done is done. Crying about it won’t fix anything.”

Michael’s throat closed.

“I’m not crying,” he said, even though his voice betrayed him.

“No, you’re doing something worse,” she shot back. “You’re wasting everything you are.”

Her words hit harder than she probably realized.

Or maybe she realized exactly how hard they hit.

The front door opened.

Both of them froze.

A moment later, William Afton stepped inside, shrugging off his coat. He paused when he heard the tension in the air—when he saw Michael standing there, shoulders hunched, and his wife gripping a piece of paper like it had personally offended her.

“…What’s going on?”