Chapter 2 - Shadows in the Mirror
Ethan didn't remember the drive back to his apartment. He remembered turning the key in the ignition, the blast of warm air from the vents doing nothing to stop the violent shaking in his hands, and then he was sitting at his kitchen table, staring at a blank computer screen.
Outside, the rain continued to beat against his windowpane with relentless precision.
He opened his personal archive file on his laptop—a hidden folder he hadn't opened in nearly a decade. Inside was a single scanned newspaper clipping from the Blackwood Chronicle, dated October 14th, eight years ago.
UNSOLVED HIT-AND-RUN CLAIMS LIFE OF LOCAL MOTHER
Sarah Miller, 28, leaves behind a husband and a two-year-old son.
Ethan pushed his hands into his hair, gripping his scalp until it hurt. For eight years, he had buried that night under layers of professional ambition, rationalization, and cold, hard work. He had convinced himself that it was an accident, that stopping wouldn't have saved her, that his life was worth saving even if he had committed a terrible, coward’s crime.
He had become a journalist to balance the cosmic scales—to bring truth to light, to give a voice to the victimized, to make up for the one life he had stolen.
But sitting in that quiet, dark apartment, listening to the rain, the delusion collapsed completely. He hadn't balanced anything. He was just a coward hiding behind a press badge. And the baby he had orphaned was now an eleven-year-old boy standing alone in the rain outside a cemetery gate, letting the sky cry for him because he had no one else to protect his grief.
The next morning, the sky was a dull, heavy slate gray, though the rain had temporarily paused. Ethan arrived at the office early. His editor, Marcus—a veteran journalist with silver hair and a permanent scowl—walked over to Ethan's desk and dropped a printed sheet of paper in front of him.
"The Cemetery Kid photo hit fifty thousand shares on Facebook last night," Marcus said, taking a sip of black coffee. "Local TV stations are picking it up. Did you manage to track him down yesterday?"
Ethan swallowed hard, forcing his face to remain an unreadable mask. "Yeah. I talked to him."
Marcus’s eyes lit up with the predatory instinct of an editor sensing a viral human-interest goldmine. "And? What’s the angle? Why is he standing out there like a Victorian ghost?"
"It's... it's just a sad kid, Marcus," Ethan said softly, his voice lacklustre. "His mother died a few years ago. He goes there to mourn."
"That's gold, Ethan! That's absolute gold," Marcus insisted, leaning against the desk. "A young boy, broken-hearted, standing in the storm to feel close to his late mother? Readers will devour that. It’s got emotion, drama, loss. Write it up. Give me fifteen hundred words by noon. We’ll put it on the front page of the website and pin it to our social channels."
"No," Ethan blurted out.
Marcus froze, frowning. "What do you mean, 'no'?"
"I mean... I don't think we should exploit him," Ethan said, his chest tight. "He's just a kid trying to deal with trauma. Turning him into a public spectacle for clicks... it feels wrong."
"Since when do you care about clicks versus public interest?" Marcus snapped, his tone sharpening. "The community is talking about him anyway. If we write a respectful, compassionate story, we can control the narrative. Hell, maybe it raises awareness. Maybe someone sets up a GoFundMe for his family. You're an investigative reporter, Ethan. Tell the story."
Ethan looked down at his hands. They were trembling slightly. If he wrote the story, he would have to dig deeper. He would have to contact the family. He would have to face the life he had destroyed up close.
"Fine," Ethan whispered. "I'll talk to his father first. If the father says no, we drop it."
"Fair enough," Marcus said, slapping Ethan on the shoulder before walking back to his office. "By noon."
Using the city directory and school records, it didn't take long for Ethan to find an address. David Miller lived in a small, weathered bungalow on the eastern edge of town—a neighborhood where the lawns were overgrown and the houses wore peeling paint like old wounds.
Ethan parked across the street. The sky was darkening again, heavy clouds rolling in from the coast. His stomach churned as he walked up the cracked concrete path and stepped onto the porch. He knocked on the wooden door, every fiber of his body screaming at him to turn around and run.
A few seconds later, the door creaked open.
The man standing in the threshold looked far older than his thirty-six years. David Miller had hollow eyes, deep lines carved into his face, and gray streaking through his dark hair. He wore a faded flannel shirt rolled up at the sleeves, his hands stained with engine oil.
"Can I help you?" David asked, his voice weary.
"David Miller?" Ethan asked, holding up his press credentials with a hand he forced to stay steady. "My name is Ethan Vance. I'm a reporter with the Blackwood Chronicle."
David’s expression hardened instantly. "If this is about the photos of my son on Facebook, you can turn around right now. I’ve already told the school board I'm trying to get those posts taken down."
"I'm not here to exploit Leo," Ethan said quickly, his voice carrying a genuine, desperate earnestness that made David pause. "I met him yesterday at the cemetery. We spoke for a few minutes. I... I just want to make sure he's okay, Mr. Miller. And I want to offer help if you need it."
David stared at Ethan for a long, heavy moment. The hostility in his eyes softened slightly, replaced by an overwhelming, bone-deep sorrow. He let out a long sigh and stepped back, opening the door wider.
"Come in," David said quietly. "Just keep your voice down. Leo's in his room."
The inside of the house was quiet, smelling of faint woodsmoke and dried lavender. Photographs lined the hallway, but Ethan’s eyes were drawn to one in particular: a framed 8x10 photo of a radiant, smiling woman with dark curls, holding a chubby toddler on a sunny beach. Sarah.
"Coffee?" David offered, walking into the small, messy kitchen.
"No, thank you," Ethan replied, remaining standing near the doorway. "Mr. Miller, I wanted to ask about Leo. He told me what his mother said to him before she passed."
David paused, his back to Ethan, his hands gripping the edge of the kitchen counter. "Sarah died when he was two," David said, his voice quiet, almost hollow. "He doesn't actually remember her face. All he has are the pictures and the stories I told him. But when she was in the ICU... right before she slipped away... she had a brief moment of lucidity. Leo was sitting on the edge of her bed, crying. She was weak, but she pulled him close and told him that about the rain."
David turned around, leaning against the counter. Tears welled in his tired eyes. "I didn't realize he remembered it. But three weeks ago, on the anniversary of the accident, he just walked out of the house during a downpour. I found him at the gates. He's gone back every time it rains since."
Ethan felt a crushing guilt pressing down on his ribcage, making it difficult to draw air. "Does he go to counseling?"
"I can't afford a therapist," David said with a bitter laugh. "I work sixteen-hour shifts at the auto shop just to keep the mortgage paid. Between medical bills from eight years ago and the cost of living, we're barely hanging on. I try to talk to him, but... I'm drowning too, Mr. Vance. Every time I look at Leo, I see her. And every time it rains, I remember that whoever killed my wife is out there living their life while mine was ruined."
David slammed his fist weakly against the counter, a flash of raw, unfiltered rage breaking through his exhaustion. "The police closed the case five years ago. They called it a dead end. Some coward hit her, panicked, and drove off like she was a dog on the side of the road. I don't care about the money. I just want justice. I want to look that monster in the eye and ask him how he sleeps at night."
Ethan stood frozen in the middle of the kitchen. Every word David spoke was a spike driven directly into his conscience. The truth sat on the tip of his tongue, burning, screaming to be released.
It was me. I was the monster.
If he confessed right now, David would attack him. He would call the police. Ethan’s career would end, his life would be destroyed, and he would go to prison for vehicular manslaughter and leaving the scene of a crime.
"I'm... I'm so sorry, Mr. Miller," Ethan managed to choke out.
Before David could respond, a soft noise sounded behind them. Leo stood in the doorway of the kitchen, wearing a fresh sweatshirt, his dark eyes looking between his father and the reporter.
"Dad?" Leo asked softly. "Is he going to write about mom?"
David looked down at his son, his expression softening instantly. He walked over and placed a large, calloused hand on the boy's shoulder. "Only if you want him to, buddy."
Leo looked at Ethan. There was no hostility in the boy's eyes—only that same haunting, ancient sadness. "If you write about her... will people remember that she was good? Not just that she died?"
Ethan dropped to one knee, bringing himself down to the boy's eye level. He looked directly into the face of the child whose life he had shattered, feeling the full, unbearable weight of his sins.
"I promise you, Leo," Ethan said, his voice trembling with a absolute sincerity. "If I write this story, I will make sure the whole world knows how much she loved you. And I won't stop until... until things are made right."
Leo stared at him for a long moment, then gave a small, solemn nod.
May you like
As Ethan walked out of the house into the gray afternoon, the sky finally broke, dropping a heavy, cold rain over the neighborhood. Ethan didn't run to his car. He stood on the sidewalk, letting the downpour drench his clothes, soaking his hair and washing over his face.
For the first time in eight years, Ethan let himself cry. But unlike Leo, the rain couldn't hide his shame. It only made it clearer.
