The police cruiser’s engine hummed steadily like a low tide beneath the thick silence that filled the space between us. I sat rigid in the passenger seat, my knee bouncing in nervous rhythm, the image of the grey-eyed figure crouched among the dense leaves relentlessly replaying in my mind. Those eyes—so hauntingly intense—had seared themselves into my memory.
When the car rolled to a stop in front of the old man’s property, unease knotted itself tightly in my gut. The iron gate stood like a silent sentinel, tall and unyielding, swallowing the fading light of the morning. The house behind it, a mansion-like relic from another century, sat cold and silent, its windows dark and unwelcoming.
The officer stepped out first, his boots crunching on the gravel driveway as he strode toward the gate and pressed the doorbell. The chime echoed hollowly, swallowed by the oppressive quiet.
Minutes stretched thin before the gate groaned open on rusted hinges. A narrow slit revealed the small, sharp face of Mr. Albu, draped in an old brown cardigan that hung loosely on his gaunt frame. His eyes, cloudy and sharp, narrowed suspiciously as he examined us.
"What do you want?" His voice was dry, edged with impatience and a brittle sharpness that made my skin prickle.
The officer cleared his throat, keeping a professional, neutral tone. "Mr. Albu, we need to inspect your property. There was a report of someone possibly being held against their will."
For a tense moment, the old man’s lips thinned into a grim line. His knobby fingers clenched the cold metal gate with white-knuckled firmness. I held my breath, certain he’d slam it shut in our faces.
Instead, with an exaggerated sigh, he released the latch. The gate creaked open, the sound harsh and unwelcome.
His expression shifted immediately as he stepped aside, the scowl melting into a forced, polite smile that barely reached his steely eyes. "Good morning, officer. What’s this about?" he asked, voice syrupy with sarcasm.
The officer didn’t waver. "This young man believes someone is held captive in your backyard. We need to verify this."
Mr. Albu chuckled, a dry, breathy sound that did little to mask the amusement flickering in his gaze. "Me? Hold someone prisoner? After all these years? That’s absurd. I’m an old man, barely strong enough to carry my own groceries. You’ve got the wrong idea."
I clenched my jaw, fists tightening involuntarily. Nothing about this felt right.
"May we take a look?" the officer asked firmly, though his voice was calm, measured, professional.
"By all means," Mr. Albu replied with a lazy shrug, stepping aside. "Be my guest."
As we moved past him, I caught the faintest flash of something dark and cold in his eyes—a silent warning, a quiet menace. When I turned to meet his gaze directly, it was gone, replaced by an inscrutable blankness.
I swallowed hard, forcing myself not to spiral into paranoia. Someone’s life could be hanging in the balance.
"This way," I said, leading the way toward the backyard. My pulse thudded painfully in my chest as we approached the towering cottonwood tree, its thick trunk twisting skyward, branches tangled and alive with the gentle morning breeze.
I scanned the shadows, heart sinking as my eyes found nothing. No figure. No chains. No sign that anyone had been there at all.
The yard was impossibly still, like a frozen moment in time. The only thing staring back was the empty air where the stranger had been.
My stomach twisted, disbelief clawing at me. "No. This can’t be right."
From the backdoor, Mr. Albu’s voice floated out—dry, mocking, heavy with disdain. "Satisfied now?"
My cheeks burned with frustration. I had seen those eyes. I had to have.
"Can we have a look inside the house?" the officer requested, his tone holding firm to professionalism but with an edge of insistence.
For the first time, a flicker of hesitation crossed the old man’s face. His jaw clenched, muscles twitching in a barely controlled tension. Then, as if forcing himself to remain composed, he plastered on another smile—thinner, more brittle than before.
"Of course," he said with a hint of sarcasm. "You’re thorough, I’ll give you that. Make yourself at home."
The officer led the way inside, his footsteps echoing through the dim hallway, doors creaking open and closed as he methodically swept through the rooms. Within moments, I found myself alone with Mr. Albu, the house’s shadows wrapping around us like a shroud.
I turned to face him, my heart hammering fiercely in my chest. The unease in my spine coiled tighter, but I refused to back down.
"Where is he?" I demanded quietly, voice low and steady despite the turmoil raging inside. "Where have you hidden him?"
Mr. Albu’s face darkened, eyes flashing with a dangerous fury that chilled me to my bones. The frail image I’d painted of him shattered; beneath the thin skin and weathered features stood a man still strong, broad-shouldered, with a posture that spoke of unyielding strength and a predator’s readiness.
His lips curled into a scowl, silent but venomous, the hatred rolling off him like heat waves. I felt exposed, vulnerable, yet unwilling to retreat.
He cracked his knuckles slowly, as if preparing to say something—a warning or a threat—but the officer’s return cut the moment short.
"Everything’s clear," the officer announced, closing the last door behind him. "No sign of anyone being held here. Sorry for the trouble, Mr. Albu. We’ll be on our way."
My stomach sank, frustration boiling over. "But you barely searched! What if—"
"We searched," the officer interrupted, tone sharp with impatience. "No evidence of wrongdoing. We shouldn’t be disturbing an elderly gentleman for unfounded accusations."
"It’s Ferrara," I corrected him once more, biting back the urge to argue further.
The officer ignored the correction, sighing heavily as if my persistence was an annoyance. "Fine, Mr. Ferrara. Let’s go before he files a complaint about trespassing."
Mr. Albu’s gaze burned at the side of my face, silent and smug. I clenched my fists, the weight of helplessness pressing down hard.
As the officer and I stepped back out into the morning light, a part of me wanted to scream or storm back in. But all I could do was draw a slow breath and follow, my heart pounding with a desperate resolve.
—
Back in my room, I collapsed onto the edge of my bed, staring blankly at the textbooks sprawled open in front of me. Notes scrawled in messy handwriting filled the margins, remnants of last night’s study session. Today was exam day—an important one—but my mind refused to focus.
The weight of the morning pressed on me, the echo of those grey eyes haunting every corner of my thoughts.
Someone had been there, hidden and desperate. And I was the only one who had seen them.
Despite the exhaustion, despite the frustration, something inside me hardened. I wasn’t letting this go. Not now. Not ever.
No matter what it took, I would uncover the truth. I would find the stranger beneath that cottonwood tree, and I would set him free.
Even if it meant standing alone against the night.