Ford Street never changed.
Kids played hopscotch on cracked sidewalks. Old Mr. Drew still yelled at pigeons like they owed him rent. And every window glowed warm yellow after 6 p.m., like the neighborhood had a secret agreement to always look cozy.
But then the house with the blue door stopped being empty.
It didn't happen quietly.
There were boxes. Posters. Paintings wrapped in thick cloth. A tall boy in a black hoodie carried everything himself — no movers, no help. A large black dog trotted behind him, leash loose in his hand.
The boy's name was Adam Walker. That's all anyone really knew.
Mrs. Thompson, the street's unofficial gatekeeper, was the first to talk to him. She was trimming her roses (again) when she spotted him stacking framed canvases in the porch corner. His handsome features easily caught everyone's attention.
"You're new, aren't you?" she called.
Adam turned slowly, brushing dust off his sleeves.
"Yes, ma'am. Just moved in."
She eyed the large painting leaning against the doorway. "Artist?"
He smiled politely. His voice calm, even — almost hypnotic. "Something like that."
"And your… dog?"
The black dog sat beside him, still as a statue but watching everything.
"Nox," Adam said simply. "He's friendly. Doesn't bark."
Mrs. Thompson just nodded, even though she was a little unsettled. "Welcome to Ford Street."
Adam's lips curved up — perfect, gentle. But his eyes didn't smile.
When Mrs. Thompson asked about his family, Adam's calm voice dropped a shade colder.
"They're far away," he said, eyes flickering briefly — something dark shifting behind them. No one pressed further.
He wasn't reclusive, exactly. Some days, neighbors saw him walking Nox early in the morning or late at night. He'd nod, offer a soft smile, and move on. He didn't linger. Never started a conversation. But polite? Always.
Over time, people decided he must go out for art commissions or gallery work. He was always dressed in black. Always calm. Always alone.
What no one knew — not even the closest neighbors — was that Adam had a voice. A voice so smooth, so captivating, it could make anyone fall helplessly in love with him if he wished. But he never showed it — probably something coming from the gens.
Some of the neighborhood kids thought he looked like a movie character. Tall, mysterious, with hands that always seemed stained faintly with charcoal or paint.
"Is he famous?" one asked.
"No," said another. "He's just weird."
Still, no one ever heard yelling from the house. No visitors. No music. Just Adam, and Nox, and sometimes the smell of turpentine drifting out his open windows.
Then everything changed.
The doctor — Dr. Peterson — was found dead in his study.
He lived just three houses down with his wife, a nurse who worked late nights at the hospital, so she wasn't home that night. Their son studied abroad.
The front door was locked. No sign of struggle. No forced entry.
And on the wall, written in something dark and smeared, was a single message:
"Just start."
Ford Street froze.
Cops. Sirens. Questions.
No one had answers.
And at the funeral, the whole street showed up. Even Adam.
He stood at the very back, dressed in all black — clean-cut, perfect posture. Nox wasn't with him.
He didn't cry. Didn't frown. Just stared, his expression unreadable.
That's when it happened.
Across the room stood the doctor's son — soft features, eyes swollen from tears, hands trembling.
Their eyes met.
For a moment, Adam's expression shifted.
Something softened. Then just like that — it was gone. And he looked away, a smirk playing on his lips despite the situation… before he masked it with his usual unreadable calm.
AUTHOR NOTE:
Wanna know what happens next? 👀
Drop a comment if you're ready for Chapter Two.
Trust me—this isn't just a story…
It's a beautiful mystery you won't forget. 💫
ASH..