Page 8 of Let Me In

The way he didn’t look away.

And I realize—I don’t even know his name.

But somehow, that makes it feel more like a story. The beginning of one. A first chapter I didn’t know I’d stepped into.

I imagine what it might feel like to return to that place—not as a trespasser, not as a ghost—but as someone expected. Someone welcome.

I imagine him stepping off that porch again. Raising his hand in that same quiet way, not to stop me. Just to say he sees me.

And I wonder if next time, I’ll stop before he asks. If I’ll stop because I want to be seen. Because some small, aching part of me wants to be wanted—not just tolerated, not just allowed.

If I’ll want to.

4

EMMY

I take the long way.Twice.

Once on purpose. The second, out of habit. Or maybe fear, dressed up as caution.

It adds nearly forty minutes to the ride, winding through the lower trails, looping up the back ridge. I tell myself it’s better this way, that I need the time. That I’m avoiding soft mud, or sharp gravel, or something else that doesn’t wear his face.

But I’m lying.

I don’t want to see him again. Not because he was unkind... he wasn’t. He was the opposite. And that’s the problem.

Because I can’t shake the way he looked at me, like I wasn’t something to glance past, but something tosee.Like I wasn’t something to be tolerated, but something quietly… welcomed.

So on the third day, I idle at the mouth of the shortcut. Helmet on. Gloves tight. The bike is quiet but pulsing beneath me like a heartbeat I can’t steady.

I tell myself I’m only taking it because I’m tired. Because the weather’s good. Because it’s a shortcut, and I’m allowed to use it.

I tell myself a lot of things.

The trees close around me like they always do—cool, green, quiet. I ride slower than I need to. Listening for something I won’t admit I want to hear. My eyes catch every shadow, every shift of light through branches, waiting for the shape that means he’s still there.

And then I see it.

The cabin. Low and wide. Solar panels catching sun on the roof. The deck empty.

But he’s there.

Down by the woodpile this time. Splitting logs with a practiced swing that looks more like choreography than labor. Like it’s something meditative. Or precise.

He looks up before I stop.

Doesn’t wave. Doesn’t move.

Just watches.

I don’t even realize I’ve stopped until the silence catches me—my hands easing off the grips, the hum of the bike fading.

Until my helmet is halfway off and his eyes are already on me.

He doesn’t speak yet. Doesn’t pressure. Just… waits.

I lift my gaze to his, unsure. My fingers twitch slightly on the chin strap. There's a flicker in his eyes when he catches it, like he sees more than I meant to show. Like he feels it too. Then he speaks.

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