The Letters In His Desk - Pt. 1

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Ethan Calloway woke like he had been dragged violently upward from deep water, lungs burning, heart pounding hard enough to make his ribs ache. For a few seconds he didn't recognize the shape of his own ceiling. The darkness in his room felt thick and close, and when he tried to take a full breath it snagged halfway down, splintering into shallow pulls that only made the panic spike higher. His sheets were twisted around his legs, damp with sweat. The red glow of his clock slowly sharpened into focus, 3:17 a.m.

The dream clung to him in sharp, merciless detail. He had been in the east hallway at school, the one near the science labs, except in the dream it stretched farther than it should have, the lockers repeating in warped perspective under flickering fluorescent lights. He had been trying to run, but his right ankle was injured. Every step sent a hot, unstable jolt up his leg, slowing him down, forcing him into a limping stagger that made escape feel impossible. He didn't know how the injury had happened. He only knew he couldn't put full weight on it. Behind him, footsteps echoed steadily against tile. Not sprinting, nor frantic. Whoever followed him wasn't in a hurry.

The sound of those steps had stayed the same distance behind him no matter how hard he pushed himself. When he glanced back, he saw only the outline of a man at the far end of the corridor, broad-shouldered, moving with unhurried certainty. Ethan had shoved open the nearest door and stumbled inside one of the old prep rooms with wired glass set into the upper half of the door. Metal shelving lined the walls, shadows cutting across stacked boxes and lab equipment. He slammed the door shut and threw his weight against it, ankle screaming in protest, fumbling for the small interior lock with trembling fingers.

The footsteps stopped on the other side.

Silence pressed in, heavy and deliberate. Through the wired glass he could see the distorted outline of the man standing just outside. The mesh of wire embedded in the pane fractured the figure into uneven lines, but the posture was unmistakable. Ethan had backed away, limping toward the far wall, chest heaving. The man lifted his hand and knocked three times against the glass. The sound was controlled and evenly spaced, not aggressive, not desperate, just precise. Ethan shook his head in the dream, whispering no under his breath as he searched the room for something heavy enough to wedge beneath the handle. When he tried to move too fast his ankle buckled and he crashed into the metal shelving, the noise echoing violently in the confined space.

The handle turned slowly. There was a soft click that suggested the lock had never been strong enough to matter.

The door burst inward with sudden force, slamming against the interior wall hard enough to rattle the wired glass in its frame. The man stepped inside without rushing. Ethan scrambled backward across the floor, ankle useless beneath him, palms slipping against tile. He never saw the man's face clearly. It remained blurred by shadow and the distortion of fear. But he knew, with absolute certainty, that the man was looking directly at him.

That was when he woke.

He pushed himself upright too fast and the room tilted sharply. His fingers tingled. His chest tightened further, breath coming in thin, uneven pulls that refused to satisfy the demand for air. For half a second he almost reached for his ankle before remembering he was in his bed. The phantom ache faded, replaced by the familiar surge of panic that took control before he could reason with it. His vision narrowed at the edges. A cold sweat slid down his spine.

"It was just a dream," he muttered, but his body didn't listen.

Staying in his room felt impossible. The air was wrong, too still. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, knees weak beneath him. The hallway outside his door was dark and quiet, perfectly ordinary, but his pulse spiked anyway. He hated that he still did this. Hated that instinct overrode pride and sent him down the hall toward his father's room at seventeen years old. On paper there was nothing fragile about him. He ran track. He swam. He pushed through pain without complaint. None of that mattered when his lungs refused to cooperate.

By the time he reached his father's door, his hands were shaking badly enough that he had to steady one wrist with the other before knocking. The sound against the wood was soft and uncertain. He didn't wait for an answer. Another shallow breath caught painfully in his throat, and he pushed the door open.

The room was dim, lit by a thin spill of streetlight through partially closed blinds. Detective Adrian Calloway lay on his back, one arm resting loosely across his chest, the other angled toward the nightstand where his phone and service weapon sat within easy reach. Even in sleep he looked composed. Ethan crossed the room in uneven steps and gripped his shoulder.

"Dad." The word came out strained and thin.

Adrian's eyes opened immediately. Years of abrupt wake-ups had trained that reflex into him. He took in Ethan in a single glance— the pallor, the trembling hands, the rapid rise and fall of his chest —and pushed himself upright.

"Ethan."

"I can't—" Ethan managed before another breath fractured.

"You can," Adrian said firmly, already guiding him to sit on the edge of the bed. "You're breathing. It just feels wrong. Look at me."

Ethan tried, but the room blurred at the edges.

Adrian's hand came to the back of his head, fingers threading into his hair, and pulled him forward until Ethan's forehead rested against his shoulder. His other arm wrapped around Ethan's upper back, firm and steady. It wasn't sentimental. It was grounding.

"I've got you," Adrian murmured, voice ragged from sleep. "In through your nose. Slow. Hold it. Out through your mouth. Match me."

He exaggerated his own breathing, deliberate and even. The first attempt from Ethan shattered into a shaky gasp.

"That's fine," Adrian said immediately. "Again. Stay with me."

Ethan clutched at the fabric of his father's T-shirt, anchoring himself to the steady rise and fall beneath his cheek. Gradually, painfully slowly, his breaths began to lengthen. The crushing tightness in his chest eased from unbearable to sharp to manageable. His heart still raced, but the rhythm lost its frantic edge.

They stayed like that for several minutes. The house remained silent around them. The refrigerator hummed faintly in the kitchen. Pipes ticked once in the walls. Adrian kept the cadence steady, unwavering, until Ethan's breathing finally settled into something sustainable. Adrian eased back slightly but kept his hand at the back of Ethan's head, studying his face in the dim light.

"What was it this time?" he asked quietly.

Ethan swallowed. "Someone was following me."

"Where?"

"At school. My ankle was messed up. I couldn't run right." He rubbed a hand over his face. "I hid in one of the wired glass rooms at the end of the hall. He knocked three times. Then the door came open like it wasn't locked at all."

Adrian's jaw tightened subtly. "You were at the station yesterday. You walked past the holding corridor. Reinforced glass in front of Timothy Slazinski. Your brain holds onto that. Stress reshapes it."

"It didn't feel reshaped," Ethan said quietly. "It felt real...intentional."

"Dreams always feel intentional," Adrian replied evenly. "That's how they convince you they matter."

Ethan looked down at his hands. "It felt like he knew I'd end up in that room."

Adrian rested a firm hand on his shoulder. "You're not in danger from a dream. Your body reacted to fear. That's all."

Ethan nodded faintly, exhaustion beginning to drag at him now that the adrenaline was draining away. Still, the certainty lingered. It hadn't felt chaotic. It felt pre-planned.

"You want to try to sleep again?" Adrian asked.

After a second, Ethan nodded. Adrian rose and pulled a heavier blanket from the chair in the corner, draping it over Ethan's shoulders before sitting back down beside him. He guided him forward once more, hand steady at the back of his head. Ethan leaned into him without protest, eyes closing slowly as he focused on the steady rhythm of his father's breathing.

"You're safe," Adrian murmured.

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Across town, in a house long abandoned and left to gather dust, a single lamp illuminated a cluttered desk. The windows were boarded from the inside, allowing only thin slivers of light to escape. The air smelled faintly of mildew and paper. A man sat at the desk with quiet patience, posture relaxed but attentive. Spread before him was a file assembled with meticulous care. Newspaper clippings charted fifteen years of cases investigated by Detective Adrian Calloway. Court transcripts were stacked neatly to one side, key passages highlighted where Adrian's testimony had secured convictions.

At the center lay a photograph of Adrian outside a courthouse, expression composed, shoulders squared. The caption beneath praised his persistence and integrity. The man traced the edge of the photograph thoughtfully before setting it aside and lifting another document. A recent school newsletter. Upcoming events. Faculty names. A photograph of students gathered during a fundraiser. His gaze lingered on a familiar surname printed beneath a student achievement announcement.

Calloway.

On a separate corner of the desk sat a copy of the anonymous letter he had sent to the station, printed in clean, impersonal font on plain white paper. 'You don't get to walk away.' He studied it briefly, then leaned back in his chair, folding his hands together. There was no visible anger in his posture.

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Back in the quiet bedroom, Adrian remained awake long after Ethan drifted into uneven sleep. He listened to every subtle change in his son's breathing, attuned to irregularities. His mind replayed the letter he had locked in his desk the previous day. 'You don't get to walk away.' It implied unfinished business. Resentment that had not faded with time. He mentally reviewed old cases, men who had shouted threats as they were led away in cuffs. Most were still incarcerated, but he would check in the morning. Quietly.

When the first faint hint of dawn softened the darkness at the edges of the blinds, Adrian eased away from Ethan and carefully stood. He crossed to the window and parted the curtain slightly, scanning the street with practiced eyes. Cars sat in driveways. Porch lights flicked off one by one. A jogger moved steadily along the far sidewalk. Everything appeared ordinary.

Down the street, a car that had been parked beneath a dying tree for most of the night started its engine softly as the sky lightened. The driver did not look directly toward the Calloway house. He merged into early morning traffic at an unremarkable speed and disappeared.

Adrian let the curtain fall back into place. He turned toward the bed and studied Ethan's sleeping form in the growing light. In sleep he looked younger, the tension smoothed from his features. Adrian sat on the edge of the mattress and brushed a few strands of hair back from his forehead. Then he placed a firm hand on his shoulder and gave it a gentle shake.

"Ethan. Come on. It's morning."

Another small squeeze, steady and grounding.

"You've got school. Time to get up."

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