Page 72 of Espíritu

Julian lay back, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. He closed them and listened to the cacophony of East LA filtering through the flimsy window. The distant hum of traffic, the occasional rattle of a license plate as a car passed by with Selena blaring, the sirens that sang lullabies of a city that never truly slept.

The door creaked open and, on instinct, Julian pretended to be asleep like he always did. He listened to the familiar sounds of his brother getting ready for bed. The creaking of the floorboards, the rustle of fabric, the soft click of the light switch—all of it was a comforting routine that Julian had grown accustomed to over the years.

Feet shuffled across the room, and Julian peeked an eye open, seeking reassurance in Rio’s presence. He watched his brother reach for the navy-and-gold LA Galaxy hat that hung from a nail by the light switch. Julian held his breath, his heart pounding in his chest.

It was their dad’s hat, the one that Rio had claimed after Ramon’s death. Julian had taken their dad’s jacket, a battered leather thing with a gray hood that still smelled faintly of motor oil and cigarette smoke. But the hat was Rio’s.

As Rio held the hat to his nose, his eyes closed and his shoulders sagged. Julian felt a lump rise in his throat. He watched as his brother breathed in deeply, as if trying to capture some lingering scent. Then, with a tenderness that Julian rarely saw, Rio pressed the hat to his chest, his fingers curling around the frayed brim like a lifeline.

It was a moment of vulnerability, a glimpse into the depths of Rio’s grief. And as Julian lay there, pretending to sleep, he felt a sudden surge of emotion that threatened to overwhelm him.

He wanted to reach out, to wrap his arms around his brother and tell him that everything would be okay. To say something—anything—that would make the heaviness of their shared grief feel lighter, even if just for a moment.

But he couldn’t. Because Julian had never been good at that kind of thing. At dealing with pain that wasn’t his own, especially when his own grief still clawed at him like an open wound.

So, instead, he squeezed his stinging eyes shut. He listened to Rio climb into his bed and click off the light. He focused on the steady rise and fall of his brother’s breathing as Rio fell into a deep sleep.

As his mind grew heavy again, Julian clung to the feeling of safety that Rio’s presence provided. Because as long as his brother was there, it was easier to pretend the darkness wasn’t creeping in.

Julian’s eyes snapped open.

A deep silence enveloped the room, as if the world had muted itself. No car alarms, no distant music, not even the subtle rustle of palm leaves in the breeze. East LA never slept, and this kind of silence didn’t feel peaceful.

It felt staged.

Julian’s heart thrummed a rapid beat, the only sound he could hear. He propped himself up on his elbow, peering through the darkness, but it was silent and empty.

His senses strained against the unnatural hush, waiting for a sign that might explain the unease coiling within him. His instincts prickled, that unease he was starting to recognize. The same one he’d felt before the maligno outside the Jack in the Box. Before the shadow in the mirror. Before—

Julian’s feet found the cold floor before he fully registered that he was standing. Quietly, he padded out into the living room, where his friends were fast asleep, nondescript lumps under piles of blankets scattered on the couch and floor.

He moved through the spectral half-light, a hand trailing along the wall for guidance. An odd chill seeped into the air. The creaks from the old linoleum under his feet sounded too loud, too intrusive.

Grogginess clouded Julian’s thoughts as he stumbled toward the kitchen. The coffee maker’s digital clock glared a neon three a.m. accusation, insisting that he should still be asleep.

“Chill,” Julian muttered to the appliance.

The hair on Julian’s neck prickled when he noticed an eerie glow emanating from the sink. Blue and otherworldly, it swirled with a hypnotic dance, casting strange shadows across the countertops.

Julian breathed out, attempting to steel himself.

Tilting his head, he edged closer to the sink where the cerulean light swirled like a miniature galaxy trapped in the rusted drain. The faint echoes and dripping sounds teased his ears—familiar but impossible to place. He squatted down, one hand steadying himself against the cool surface of the counter, the other hesitantly hovering over the ambiguous glow.

It pulsed in response, as if aware of his presence, beckoning him.

He leaned closer, the strange acoustics growing louder.

Then—

A low growl rumbled up from the drain, faint but unmistakable.

Julian flinched, wrenching his hand back.

Behind him, a voice—close, impossible—whispered his name across his neck.

“Julian.”

He spun, eyes wide, he tried to see through the dark, as his heart kicked against his chest.