The: Coffin Of Andy And Leyley

That made her open her eyes. Two dark voids in a pale face. "Where would we go? The world out there put us in this box, Andy. This coffin of an apartment. Why would we leave?"

Behind them, the apartment sat hollow and patient, waiting for new ghosts.

Her eyes were wet. Not crying—Leyley didn't cry, not since they were small—but something had cracked behind them. Something raw and pink and furious.

Andy didn't move. "We can't stay here."

He didn't ask what she meant. He didn't have to.

"Feel that?" she whispered. "Still going. As long as that's going, you don't get to check out on me. You don't get to see ghosts. You look at me."

The demon in the vents watched them go. And for the first time in a long, long time, it smiled too. the coffin of andy and leyley

"I saw Mom today," he said quietly.

That night, they didn't sleep apart. They never did anymore. She pressed her back against his chest, and he wrapped an arm around her waist, and they lay in the dark listening to the building settle—or maybe it was the demon, shifting its weight in the ducts, patient as a spider.

Leyley's expression didn't change, but the air got colder. "Mom's dead." That made her open her eyes

Leyley sat up. The butter knife glinted. "The one with the door?"

"We are the only real people left," she said. "Everyone else is just set dressing. Meat. You understand?"