Days after the night shift, Brandon sank into sleep so deep the city seemed to pass him by. When he woke, afternoon sunlight sliced through his blinds, painting the walls in bars of pale gold. His phone buzzed; a text from Maya lit the screen.
Maya: Hey stranger. Back in town. You alive?
Brandon: Barely. Overnight shift nearly killed me.
Maya: Lol, I told you you're not built for nights. Pancakes later?
He grinned, thumb a little clumsy with sleep as he replied:
Sure, I could use that.
They met up at Sweet Stack, a battered old breakfast spot down the block where the maple syrup always tasted faintly of burnt sugar. Pancakes came in stacks that defied gravity. Maya burst in smelling of new rain, her hair tied back and a museum-branded tote slung over her shoulder.
"I see you've been surviving the night shift, huh?" She grinned, handing over a steaming cup—this time, black coffee with a sprinkle of cinnamon. "You look less dead than I anticapated."
"Miracle of pancakes," Brandon said, sitting down and sliding his phone away. "So how was the trip?"
She rolled her eyes and laughed. "Work. Visited some museums in Harborview, did interviews for old exhibits. Stayed with my aunt for two nights. Locals there swear the town's haunted, but honestly, they wouldn't last a week in Ashara."
Brandon snorted, stabbing his fork into a mound of blueberry pancakes. "Did the haunted museum thing work out?"
Maya's face shone. "I got the assistant curator spot. They want me digging through archives, digitizing any records about urban legends and unexplained events. Basically, I'm being paid to feed my obsession with weird old stuff."
He grinned—proud, but also relieved to see her energy undimmed. They caught up on jobs, future plans, the little cracks and victories of everyday life. Maya talked about her family—a cousin who collected ghost stories, an uncle who claimed to see mysterious lights by the docks.
Brandon listened, letting her stories fill in something soft and real. The city's tension faded when they talked, but in the corner of his mind, the red leaf sat heavy and warm in his pocket.
Scene 2: Movie Night
Some nights later, they met up with Tariq and friends for a downtown movie—a late show in a near-empty theater, the screen burning through explosions and neon car chases. Maya and Brandon swapped jokes about terrible CGI, Tariq kept a running snark-track, and the bucket of popcorn disappeared in record time.
At first, everything felt normal. Then, halfway through, the projector flickered—just once, but enough for Brandon to tense. Colors on the screen twisted, shadows stretched and snapped back. When he blinked, a red orchard appeared—a single frame, hidden in the chaos of the chase scene.
He froze, heart in his throat. The vision lasted an instant, then the action resumed as if nothing had happened.
"Hey," Maya whispered, nudging him. "You good?"
"Yeah," Brandon rasped. "Weird visual—movie glitch or something."
But the dread built, scene by scene. In the worn silver of a handrail, Brandon glimpsed a shape—a figure, tall and motionless in the center aisle, watching him from beneath the break of light. He turned; the seats were empty except for silent moviegoers. For a moment, every phone screen in the theater lit up, pure white—the whole place stilled, the light too sharp, too cold.
Brandon squeezed his pocket, feeling the leaf pulse against his skin. He tried to focus on Maya's laughter, Tariq's jokes, but the shadows no longer fit the light; they stretched the wrong way, moved against the projector's brightness. The pull grew heavier, breathless.
As the credits rolled and the theater emptied, a group of people shuffled in late—faces washed in streetlamp glow. They looked ordinary, chatting quietly, but something about their movements set Brandon's teeth on edge. Their laughter sounded just a little too hollow.
Outside, Maya joined him under the harsh neon marquee, concern flickering in her eyes.
"You sure you're okay?" she asked as the crowd thinned. "You got pale in there."
Brandon took a shaky breath. "Something weird happened during the film. I saw—" He hesitated. "It's like when the power goes out at work. Glitches, flickers. Except… it's following me, I think."
Tariq reappeared, juggling his phone and keys. "Don't let the vampires get you, man."
Brandon almost laughed, but the dread wouldn't fade. The leaf in his pocket throbbed with warmth. "I wish it were that simple."
Maya looked at him, earnest, searching. "Tell me, Bran. What really happened?"
He explained: the glitches on his night shift, the red leaf, the shadows on the camera feeds, the same whisper in his dreams—orchard roots, fruit, the voice close as breath. In the dark, as Maya listened, the city's sirens echoed far off, carrying something ancient and electric.
Shadows shifting at the far edges of the block. Brandon felt the dread lingering, pulse drumming in time with the memory of flickers and impossible visions.
Maya stepped closer, looping her arm gently through his—an anchor against the swirl of the city. She squeezed, her touch both light and certain, grounding him on the cracked sidewalk beneath the marquee.
"You're not facing it alone, okay?" she said softly, looking up with a crooked smile that made the edges of the world recede. "I don't scare easy—not with you around. We'll chase the weird stuff together. Just promise me you'll save me the last stack of pancakes, no matter what ghosts show up."
Brandon let out a laugh—real, if a little shaky. The tension in his shoulders eased. Together, they moved down the street, arm in arm, as the city's secrets buzzed in the neon behind them.
The warmth of her presence lingered, stronger than the chill that followed them. For that moment, at least, he believed her.
For a moment, they stood together, uncertain but sure the city was hiding more than broken wiring and urban legends.
Brandon nodded, clutching the warmth in his pocket. The city breathed—alive, aware—watching them from deep in the orchard, waiting for its roots to rise.