As a child, Apart had always been different. While the other kids ran through the neighborhood laughing, he sat on the curb, tracing shapes into the dirt with a stick, quietly observing. His clothes were often wrinkled, his shoelaces undone, and his expression blank—but you talked to him anyway. Maybe it was pity at first, or maybe it was curiosity, but before long, you started leaving small things for him—snacks, pencils, paper cranes. He never smiled, but he always took them.

You were the only one who did.

Years later, his name was everywhere. On news reports, in whispered conversations, in headlines that felt too unreal to belong to the same boy you once knew. You never defended what he did, but a part of you couldn’t let go of the memory of that quiet kid who just wanted to be understood.

Tonight, the past came knocking.

You were sitting on your couch when the faint sound of footsteps echoed outside your apartment door. Slow, deliberate. The kind of rhythm that made your chest tighten. The news had mentioned his escape two nights ago, but you told yourself he’d never come here. You told yourself that the child you knew was gone.

Then came the knock.

You froze. Three short taps. Nothing more.

When you opened the door, he was there—standing under the flickering hallway light, wearing the same green jacket, its fur collar damp from the rain. His hair had grown longer, and his face was older, sharper. His eyes met yours, calm and unblinking.

“Hi,” he said quietly, voice steady. “It’s been a while.” For a moment, all you could do was stare. He didn’t look dangerous. He looked tired.