Yug's Portfolio

There was a knock on the door. Not loud, not hurried. Just three quick raps. The old man stopped, his teacup halfway to his lips. Nobody knocked anymore.

He got up slowly, bones creaking like dry wood, and made his way to the door. He looked through the peephole and recognized the boy from across the street. The same boy who assisted him months back, when he fell while carrying out the trash. That night was cold and still. The garbage bag had torn. He crouched down, lost his balance, and slammed onto the pavement hard. The boy witnessed it from his upstairs window. He rushed over, picked him up, gathered the trash, and called for assistance. Since that time, the two merely nodded from afar. Never talked. Not until now.

The old man opened the door.

“I just… wanted to see if you needed anything. It’s freezing tonight,” the boy said, speaking softly.

The man stared at him for a while. “I’m fine. Thank you,” he replied.

He closed the door and remained standing, hand still resting on the knob. The knock still resounds.

They called him Mr. Thomas. It was likely not his actual name, but no one knew for certain. He was alone in the house with the drooping porch and the eternally lit light. He would sit every evening in the porch swing, swaying gently, as if he waited for someone who was running behind. Or never arriving. The boy would observe him at times from his bedroom window. Sometimes the porch light would remain on until dawn. Sometimes the kitchen light would turn on after midnight. Mr. Thomas would be standing there, motionless at the counter. Not doing anything. Just standing. Staring.

There used to be a little girl. She would run to the door shouting “Grandpa!” Her voice was loud, full of life. She had messy hair and always carried crayon drawings. He kept them in the fridge. They were still there, corners curled, colors faded.

The house was once filled with sound. Laughter. Life. And then one day it wasn’t.

He sat down again at the kitchen table. His tea was cold now. He did not drink it. He glanced out the window at the boy’s house. The light upstairs was still on.

He didn’t know the boy’s name. That didn’t matter, though.

What mattered was the knock. And that someone noticed the light was still on.