My breath quickened.

Another knock.

"Hello?" His deep, gravelly voice was muffled by the door between us.

I jumped at the sound, my pulse racing. Crouching lower, I barely breathed, willing him to leave. Every instinct screamed at me to stay hidden. But as I shifted, my elbow struck the side table, sending a glass clattering to the floor. The sharp sound shattered the stillness.

Panic twisted in my stomach. There was no hiding now.

I backed away from the window, creeping toward the front door where he stood. My voice came out dry, barely controlled.

"I don't think I can help you. My dad's upstairs sleeping, and I'm not allowed to open the door to strangers."

It was a lie, and I knew it sounded weak. Pressing my eye to the peephole, I saw his face come into view under the dim porch light. He was younger than I had expected—mid-twenties, maybe. His hair was messy, and his eyes were an unusually pale blue, sharp and cold, giving nothing away. A jagged scar carved through his eyebrow, curving down toward his cheek.

His gaze swept the door, piercing and probing, as if he could see straight through it. "Could you wake him up?" he asked, his voice calm but edged with something harder. "I'm really stuck out here," he added, softer, almost coaxing.

The knot in my stomach tightened. There was something in his tone—something buried beneath those carefully chosen words. I forced a lightness into my reply. "I can't. He'd be really mad."

For a moment, his face hardened. His jaw tightened, frustration flickering across his features before he forced a tight smile. "Alright," he said, clipped. "Thanks anyway."

I watched him turn and walk toward the porch steps, but not before he cast one last glance over his shoulder at the house. His gaze lingered too long, sending a cold shiver down my spine.

"Wait!" The word burst from me before I could stop it. My hands fumbled with the lock, ensuring the chain was secure before I cracked the door open a fraction. "Wait!"

He paused mid-step and turned back, his shadow stretching long in the dim light.

"The next house," I said quickly, my voice trembling. "Our neighbour about a half mile down the lane is a mechanic. If you're stuck, he might be able to help."

"Great," he said, flashing a smile that revealed surprisingly perfect white teeth. "You've been... a godsend."

My heart thudded painfully in my chest. I shut the door with a snap, turning the key in the lock before stepping away. Crouching low, I peeked through the curtains again, watching him retreat down the driveway toward the narrow lane. He moved slowly, his figure swallowed by the darkness. Only when he was completely gone did I exhale.

The next morning, the chill from the night before still lingered, seeping into the walls and wrapping around the house like a second skin. I didn't see Mum, but I heard her unlocking the door while I was brushing my teeth. She was back from her shift, exhausted as always. After I got dressed, I popped my head into her bedroom.

"How was last night?" she asked, her voice thick with fatigue.

"You'll never guess—" I began, but she cut me off with a yawn.

"Can you tell me later? I'm too tired now." I knew that later would never come being as we were like ships in the night I couldn't even remember the last time we shared a meal. 

"Oh, sure." I forced a smile, stepping into the room to give her a quick kiss on the cheek. She was asleep before I even closed the door. Disappointment sat heavily in my chest, but I pushed it aside. She was always tired.

On my way to sixth form, I stopped outside Phil's house. His garage door was open, the sharp smell of oil thick in the crisp morning air."Hi, Phil," I called as he wiped his hands on a rag.

"You alright there, Samantha?"

"Yeah, great." I hesitated, my stomach tightening. "Hey, did a guy come by last night? Said his car broke down. I told him to come see you."

Phil frowned, the lines in his forehead deepening. "What guy?"

My stomach sank. "A man. I sent him your way around eleven. He said he was stuck."

Phil shook his head slowly. "Nobody came here last night. Not a soul."

A chill ran through me, colder than the damp night air. My voice felt thin, wavering. "You're sure?"

"Positive," Phil said, studying me with concern. "You alright?"

The knot in my stomach twisted tighter. I nodded, offering a weak smile, but my mind was already racing. The man hadn't been looking for help. He hadn't been lost.

So, what had he been doing there?

The conversation with Phil replayed in my mind, each word twisting deeper into my thoughts. Had I imagined the man? The idea was absurd. The memory of him standing on my doorstep was too vivid, too real. I could still feel the cold, biting air prickling my skin as I peered through the narrow gap in the door. I could still see his pale eyes cutting through the dim porch light, the jagged scar on his brow catching the faint glow.

But why hadn't he gone to Phil's?

Perhaps his car wasn't as broken as he said. Perhaps it had revved back to life, saving him the walk down the lane. Or maybe... maybe he hadn't wanted help at all.

The idea enveloped me like a wet shroud, cloying and thick. Try as I might to rationalise it, the memory just didn't sit right. It wasn't just the scar—though that jagged line carved across his face from brow to cheekbone was impossible to forget—it was something deeper. Something in his presence, something unsettling I couldn't quite name.

The scar had unnerved me, and his voice—too smooth, too practised—wrapped around his words like a veneer.

The question swirled in my mind, feeding the unease settling like a stone in the pit of my stomach. Every step I took to meet Amber felt heavier, weighed down by thoughts I couldn't shake.

Amber was hard to miss, her long blonde  hair flowing in loose waves.  Her brown feather hair extension, a signature she'd adopted in year five, blew gently in the cold October breeze. Back then, I hadn't liked it, but now it was distinctly hers—something she changed every few months to a new colour.

The breeze tugged at her oversized leather jacket, its worn sleeves creaking faintly with movement. A relic from her mum's teenage years in the early '80s, the jacket hung from her shoulders, three sizes too big. She wore it all the time, a tangible connection to her mother. It was both comforting and defiant, much like Amber herself.

Her outfit exuded effortless defiance: ripped jeans, an oversized vintage jumper hanging loose off one shoulder, and chunky brown leather boots that made her seem taller than she really was. She had a confidence that made the anxiety coiled tightly inside me feel even heavier by contrast.

"About time!" she called, her grin as wide as ever once she noticed me. The cool morning air was sharp, making the smoke from her cigarette spiral into the air in thin, twisting lines. I could smell it before I even reached her—the tang of tobacco mixed with the earthy scent of wet leaves from the nearby trees.

"You look like hell," she said, exhaling a stream of smoke. Her sharp gaze flicked over me, taking in my dishevelled appearance.

I rubbed my face as I approached. How did she know me so well?

"What's up?" she asked. I hesitated, glancing around as if the scarred man might step out from the shadows at any moment.

"Nothing," I lied, my voice too quick, too strained.

Amber raised a sceptical eyebrow, her smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Yeah, okay. Spill it." She said sarcastically. 

I wanted to tell her everything. About the knock. The man. The way his eyes had lingered too long, But the words lodged in my throat. Saying it aloud, I knew I would sound silly. I didn't know how to explain the knot of unease twisting inside me without sounding paranoid, like I was losing my grip.

"It's nothing," I repeated, forcing a shrug I didn't feel. "Just tired. I didn't sleep much."

Amber didn't push, though her narrowed eyes said she didn't believe me. With a flick of her wrist, she dropped her cigarette to the ground, grinding it under the toe of her boot. "You're lucky I didn't leave without you. Well, come on then," she said, her tone light but firm. "Don't want to be late... again."

 As we walked away from the bus stop, her carefree stride a stark contrast to my own tense steps, I couldn't help glancing over my shoulder. The narrow lane stretched out behind us, empty and quiet. 

We didn't speak much as we made our way to the sixthform mostly because of me my mind wouldn't quiet. 

"Sam, you've got the look ?" Amber finally said as we got to the gates.

"What look?" 

"The 'Sam's overthinking everything again' look." She nudged me with her elbow, her feather swinging with the movement, playful but filled with genuine concern.

"Honestly, nothing," I said, forcing a smile.

The weight in my chest refused to lift, the memory of the scarred man pressing tighter with each step.