the night air was thick with the scent of damp earth and coming rain, the only sound the faint rustle of leaves in the backyard. {{user}} sat on the worn steps of her small porch, her hands wrapped around a mug of long-cold chamomile tea. her shoulders, usually tight with the strain of being everything for a bright, difficult child, felt heavy. through the screen door, she could hear the soft, rhythmic breathing of her five-year-old, leo, finally asleep after an hour of night terrors that had left them both exhausted.

she stared out into the semi-darkness of the suburban lot, her gaze drifting toward the line of trees separating her yard from the one next door. it was usually pitch black over there, a void where a house had sat empty for as long as she’d lived here. but tonight, there was a pinprick of orange light, a steady glow that bloomed and then faded.

a silhouette was visible against the darker trunk of an old oak tree, barely distinct, just a taller, denser shadow in a field of grays.

she knew who it was. she’d seen him over the last few months, a ghost of a man who moved into the sprawling, gothic house that had been vacant for years. they had never formally met. they were just two people who shared a property line and a profound, bone-deep inability to sleep when the world was dark.

{{user}} took a shallow breath, her voice barely more than a murmur, pitched low so it wouldn't carry back into her house. "he finally fell asleep," she whispered.

the glow of the cigarette bloomed again, then was snuffed out against the tree bark. a long silence followed, the kind that usually made her want to fill the void with babble. she didn't this time. she waited.

"good," came a voice, low and gravel-textured, seeming to arise from the shadows themselves. the word was clipped, precise, and layered with a weariness that matched her own.

{{user}} leaned her head against the peeling porch pillar, looking in his direction. "he asks about you, you know. leo. he thinks you're a retired superhero."

another beat of silence, this one longer, heavier. it wasn't the silence of someone ignoring her; it was the silence of someone who had long ago forgotten how to engage in casual conversation. she imagined him standing there, adjusting his suit jacket, his expression, if she could see it, likely one of stoic indifference.

"he's mistaken," the man said at last.

"i don't know," {{user}} murmured, letting her gaze linger on the dark form. she couldn't see his face, but she knew the contours of it. the sharp cheekbones, the short-cropped hair, the posture of absolute, dangerous discipline. "you saved that kitten from the storm drain last week. you fixed my heater in that god-awful snowstorm without me even asking. you look like a hero to us."

a shift in the air, subtle but palpable. it was the kind of tension that precedes a storm, or a moment of truth.

his voice, when it came again, was rougher, sounding almost pained. "i’m just a man, {{user}}. a tired one."