The next day dawned with a buzzing energy that had nothing to do with cicadas or lawnmowers. Moving trucks. Big ones. Two of them, parked haphazardly in front of the house next door, already disgorging their contents onto the lawn. My curiosity, always a restless beast, finally had something tangible to latch onto.
I watched from my bedroom window, pretending to organize a stack of vintage comic books. Two burly movers wrestled a massive sofa through the front door, looking like ants trying to carry a hot dog. Then I saw them. Not the sofa, but the family.
First, the parents. A woman, tall and slender, with dirty blonde hair pulled back in a severe bun. She moved with an odd, almost mechanical grace, her eyes scanning everything with an unnerving intensity. This must be Elena. She didn't supervise the movers so much as analyze them, her head tilted slightly as if deciphering complex algorithms in their grunts and strained efforts. The man beside her, also tall and with dirty blonde hair, was equally precise in his movements. He carried a small, oddly shaped box with extreme care, clutching it with both hands as if it contained ancient relics instead of, presumably, kitchenware. This was Ryan. They both looked… immaculate, despite the dust and chaos of moving day. Not a hair out of place, no sweat stains. Almost too perfect. I wondered if they'd had their outfits dry-cleaned this morning specifically for moving.
Then I saw him. The guy. He was taller than both his parents, probably six feet two inches at least, with broad shoulders and a lean, athletic build visible even under his simple t-shirt. His dirty blonde hair was a shade lighter than his parents', falling casually around his ears. He was tan, in stark contrast to my own very pale skin, and he moved with a fluid power that made the movers look clumsy. This had to be Asher. He carried a large box labeled "OCCUPATIONAL HAZARDS," I read with a squint, realizing my brain was clearly already on senior year autopilot, twisting the letters.
He wasn't hauling furniture with the movers. Instead, he was standing slightly apart, his head tilted, watching the entire operation with an intense, almost analytical gaze. He occasionally checked a sleek, minimalist phone—no obvious branding, very unlike my chunky vintage flip-phone or even Mom's current model. He looked like he was cataloging every grunt, every dropped box, every exasperated sigh. There was a quiet hum about him, a stillness that drew my eye, even through the glass. He seemed utterly focused, taking everything in.
Suddenly, Asher glanced up. His eyes, a shade I couldn't quite discern from this distance, swept across my house. For a split second, I felt like he wasn't just looking at my window, but directly into my room, directly at me. A jolt, like static electricity, ran through me, starting somewhere behind my ribs. It wasn't unpleasant, but it was startling, a sudden awareness that made me suck in a sharp breath. I quickly ducked behind the curtain, my heart doing a little flutter-kick in my chest. Had he seen me? Probably not. I was a ninja when it came to discreet observation.
The sounds of human labor, punctuated by the occasional clang of something metal or the shouted instructions from the movers, continued throughout the afternoon. I stayed near the window, peeking through the gaps in the curtains, finding myself drawn back to Asher. He wasn't helping his parents or the movers in any traditional sense. Instead, he moved around the periphery, sometimes standing completely still for long moments, observing, then walking over to quietly pick up a fallen piece of packing tape, or brush a speck of dirt off a freshly moved box. His actions were strangely deliberate, almost ritualistic.
At one point, he picked up a small, vibrant green plant that had fallen from a pot. He examined it with a tenderness that surprised me, gently brushing dirt from its leaves before carefully placing it back where it wouldn't be stepped on. It was a small detail, but it stuck with me. Most teenagers wouldn't notice a fallen plant during a move, let alone care enough to tend to it. Asher did.
Around lunchtime, a local pizza delivery car pulled up. The movers cheered, but Elena and Ryan approached the boxes of pizza with cautious curiosity. They exchanged a look I couldn't decipher, then each took a single, thin slice, holding it with two hands, as if it were a delicate, unfamiliar artifact. They took small, precise bites, chewing slowly, their expressions unreadable. Asher, however, accepted his slice with a subtle grace, taking a bite that seemed more natural, though he still ate with a quiet focus, absorbing the taste and texture with an almost scientific intensity. He finished his slice, then, to my surprise, reached for another, then a third. He seemed to genuinely enjoy it, far more than his parents.
The sun began to dip towards the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. The moving trucks finally pulled away, leaving behind a house that still felt new, but now contained the quiet hum of newly settled life. I knew, with a certainty I couldn't explain, that this quiet house, and the new, unusually observant boy who now lived in it, were about to make my senior year anything but normal. And a part of me, the part that loved alien conspiracies and unexplained signals, was buzzing with an anticipation that felt a lot like excitement.