Hallow

The floors creak beneath Tate’s tired feet as he sets his worn suitcase down. He lifts trembling fingers to his nose as if to rub away the scent of mothballs clinging to the old house. His mother calls him downstairs; she needs help unloading the afghan collection. A wisp of icy air trickles across the pale skin of his neck. Tate doesn't notice the pair of oval eyes glinting after his retreating form.