Author's Note:

This character is new to my world, he belongs to a fan of my stories... he requested I bring him in.. so this is his story.. the character belongs to 

@Allenisawriternowduh

Sparky's POV

The house is too quiet.
That's how I like it. Or at least that's what I tell myself.

Silence doesn't argue. It doesn't ask questions. It doesn't look at me like I'm supposed to be someone else.

Still, sometimes it gets too quiet — that kind of quiet that presses against your ribs until you can't breathe right.

Outside, I can hear them. The neighbors. Laughter, music, the soft crackle of fire. Someone's teasing someone else, voices overlapping until they sound like one big blur of noise and warmth.

It's the kind of sound that used to mean home.

Now it just makes my skin crawl.

I came here for a clean slate.
Adventure Bay. Small town. Ocean air. Cheap rent for a reason.

It was supposed to help. It doesn't.

Everywhere I go, I still see him — my brother — in the corners of rooms, in the way people smile, in every reflection I try not to look at.

The first time I walked into the grocery store, some guy bumped into me and said "Hey, watch it, man" in the same voice my brother used to have when he was joking. I froze. My hands started shaking so bad I couldn't grab the basket.

The guy thought I was high.
I didn't explain.

I don't explain much anymore.

The cops told me they'd "do everything they could."
They didn't.
His killer's still out there somewhere, breathing the same air.

They told me to "move forward he was 8, I was 13."
So I did — just not in the way they meant.

Now I'm sixteen, living alone, collecting ghosts.

The boxes in the corner are still half-unpacked.
There's a photo sitting on top — me and him. He's got that same grin everyone around here seems to wear. I can't look at it for more than a few seconds.

I tell myself I'll hang it later, but I know I won't.
It's easier to leave things halfway done. Easier not to finish anything, because finishing means it's real.

I drag my hand through my hair and move to the window. The house next door is lit up — warm yellow spilling across the lawn. I can see two shapes moving inside, brothers, maybe.

They're laughing.

Something twists in my chest, sharp and familiar.

I turn away and sit on the couch. My meds sit on the table — the ones I stopped taking a week ago. They make me foggy, and foggy feels too close to drowning.

I'd rather feel the ache. At least pain feels honest.

The air feels heavier here than it did in the city. It smells cleaner, but that almost makes it worse. You can't hide anything in clean air.

Every sound stands out.

Even the smallest things — the fridge humming, the wind in the trees, the neighbors laughing again — it all hits like static under my skin.

I close my eyes and try to picture my brother's face, but all I can see is how I found him.
How his eyes wouldn't close.
How nobody cared enough to look for who did it.

I told them I'd find out myself one day.

They said that wasn't healthy.

Maybe not.
But it's all I have left that feels real.

Someone outside slams a car door. I flinch before I can stop myself. My heart won't slow down right away — it never does.

I walk to the window again, fingers twitching against the glass.
Across the fence, one of the boys from the other house is walking up the driveway — dark hair, tall, carrying a hoodie over his shoulder.

He glances toward my house, just for a second.

Our eyes almost meet through the window.

I step back into the dark before he can see me.

The quiet comes back, thicker than before.
I sink onto the floor beside the couch, back against the wall, trying to remember how to breathe through it.

This was supposed to be a new beginning.

But so far, it just feels like another ending.

The quiet stretches until it feels like it's swallowing me whole.
I've lived with it long enough to know it never really stops — it just waits.

Sometimes I talk out loud, just to fill the space. Not to anyone. Just... to the air.

Tonight, I don't.

Instead, I drag my laptop off the table and onto my knees. The screen lights up the whole room, throwing pale blue across the boxes and the wall where that photo still sits.

For a second, I look at my brother's face. The easy grin. The messy hair. The eyes that used to look at me like I was still worth saving.

"I'm trying, man," I whisper. "I really am."

Then I get to work.

It's not that hard — not when you've spent the last year watching, listening, figuring out how systems fall apart.
Public records are open. Schools don't look too close if you give them the right story.

I already have the story.

New town. New guardian situation. Transfers from a different district.
Parents "traveling for work."
Student records got lost in the move.

Simple. Believable.

The truth would make everything complicated — no family, no real address before this one, no one to vouch for me except the landlord who barely remembers my name.

So I make something that sounds right.
Because sounding right is all anyone cares about.

A Fake school account, I was able to hack the system easily. The  passwords were weak and easily hackable. I copy the format, the grades, even the teacher signatures. I edit the name out, replace it with mine.

There's something almost peaceful about it — the rhythm of typing, the hum of the keys, the way each lie smooths another jagged edge inside my chest.

I tell myself this isn't wrong.
It's survival.

My brother would want me to do it.

He'd want me to go back to school, make friends, live like he would've if he'd had the chance, even though he was younger than me he was a good kid.

Maybe that's what I'm doing — living for both of us.

By the time I finish, it's past midnight.
The fake transcript looks perfect — GPA, attendance, even a note from a "former principal" vouching for my character. I stare at it until the words blur together.

It's strange, really. I've told myself so many lies that this one almost feels true.

Almost.

I save everything to a flash drive, shut the laptop, and lean back on the couch. The silence creeps back in, curling around the corners of the room.

Tomorrow, I'll go to Adventure Bay High.
I'll hand the principal my fake papers.
I'll shake hands, smile at the right times, pretend I belong.

It'll work. It has to.

Because I can't be the kid whose brother was murdered forever.
I have to be someone else — someone alive.

The screen light fades as the laptop powers down.
Across the wall, the photo catches a sliver of moonlight. My brother's grin looks almost real in it.

"Wish me luck," I whisper.

The words sound small, but they're all I have.

Outside, the waves hit the shore, steady and unbothered. Somewhere next door, I hear quiet voices — brothers, laughing.

For a moment, I almost wish I could join them.

Then I remember what happens when I get close to people.

And I shut the laptop for good.

The clock on the stove reads 7:37 a.m.

Too early for anyone to be awake, too late for me to change my mind.

The air feels heavy as I pull on my hoodie and double-check the folder — transcripts, transfer form, the fake letter from my "former principal." Everything looks clean. Everything looks real enough.

I grab my backpack, shove the folder inside, and glance once at the window.
The house next door is dark.

Good.

I move quietly — no lights, no creaking floors if I can help it. Every sound feels like it echoes. Even the zipper of my bag sounds too loud.

The lock clicks, the door closes behind me, and the cold air hits. I pull my hood up.

Adventure Bay's still half-asleep. The streetlights flicker over empty sidewalks, the ocean wind pushing through the trees. There's something peaceful about it, even if my stomach's a knot.

It's about a fifteen-minute walk to the high school. The buildings here all look the same — clean, quiet, too perfect. Nothing like where I came from.

Every step feels like a countdown.
By the time I reach the main office, the sky's starting to lighten to gray.

The front doors are unlocked. A woman inside is flipping through a clipboard, coffee in hand. She looks up when I enter.

Her expression softens immediately. "Good morning. You here for registration?"

Her voice catches me off guard — calm, patient. Not the kind I'm used to.

"Uh, yeah," I say, keeping my head down. "Transfer student. Just moved here."

"Well, welcome to Adventure Bay High." She smiles, setting her mug aside. "I'm Mrs. Alvarez, the principal. Why don't you have a seat? We'll get your paperwork sorted."

I hand her the folder before my hands can start shaking. "All the forms should be there."

She opens it, flipping through the pages. "Looks like you came from—" she squints a little, reading the header, "—Westview Secondary?"

I nod quickly. "Yes, ma'am."

"Good school," she says, still scanning. "I'm sure this transition will be easy for you."

If you only knew.

She studies the pages longer than I'd like. I keep my expression blank, but my pulse won't slow down.

Finally, she looks up. "Everything seems in order," she says slowly — like she means it, but is still thinking. Then she smiles. "I'll get your schedule printed. You'll meet your homeroom teacher on the first day, and your student ID will be ready by then."

My shoulders drop before I can stop them. "So... I'm good to start?"

"You're good to start," she says warmly. "And if you need anything — anything at all — my door's always open, okay?"

I force a small smile. "Thanks."

If only she knew how wrong she was.

As I leave the office, the first few students are starting to arrive. Laughter bounces off the hallway walls — the same kind of noise I heard last night through the window.

I tighten my grip on the straps of my backpack and walk faster.

I don't want to fit in.
I just want to disappear quietly enough that nobody looks too close.

But deep down, I can already tell —
this place isn't going to let me.