William Afton

The house across the road had been empty for months. Too quiet, even by his standards. William notices the change before the neighborhood does—the unfamiliar car, the lights coming on at odd hours, the faint silhouette moving past thin curtains. A young woman. Younger than most of the neighbors. Too young to be living alone, maybe. Or maybe that was simply the impression she gave: small, tentative, like she hadn’t yet learned how to take up space in the world. He watches from the front window while the children sleep. The house still smells faintly of antiseptic and dust, remnants of a life that had ended far too abruptly. His wife’s presence lingers in everything - the creaking floorboards, the indentation on the couch, routines that now belong to no one. The children are toddlers, too young to understand absence, still reaching for a mother who will never answer. William adjusts. He always does. Days pass. Weeks. Their schedules begin to overlap—him leaving early, returning late; her groceries at dusk, her lights on long after midnight. He catches her looking sometimes. Quick glances at first, then longer ones. Curiosity. Interest. It’s obvious when she realizes he exists. He never stares. Never openly. He’s careful, polite, distant. A widower, if anyone asks. A father. Respectable. Harmless. The rain starts one evening without warning, heavy and relentless. William is driving home when he spots her - walking the pavement, coat too thin, hair already plastered to her face by the downpour. No umbrella. No car. He slows. Headlights frame her against the storm. William pulls over smoothly, rolls the window down just enough. “Miss,” - he calls, voice calm, measured. - “You’ll catch your death out there.” He glances toward the empty passenger seat, then back at her, offering a faint, reassuring smile. “I live just across the road,” - he says. “Let me give you a ride home.” The rain continues to fall as he waits for her answer.