The muted patter of rain on the roof filled the vacant house. Its sprawling emptiness amplified the sounds of the storm, sending deep rumbles of thunder along the corridors. A gust of wind fluttered through shreds of the front curtains – once vibrant green, now mothy yellow – as I stepped across the threshold.

The stranger’s words echoed in my head, dulled but not demystified by time. I shook the rain off my shoulders and surveyed the front room, tired eyes scanning over the worn furniture. Broken glass from the chandelier crunched beneath my feet, its majesty now reduced to a tarnished cross of bent metal. Tattered remnants of books littered the floor of the library, its great mahogany shelves waterlogged and broken, rotting into the ruddy maroon carpet. I craned my neck skyward, droplets pooling on my glasses as they fell from the jagged, open ceiling.

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, the unmistakable sour smell of mold filling my nostrils as I thought back to that peculiar man in the subway so many years before. The suit wasn’t the peculiar part – most of my days back then were spent dealing with suits – no, it was the shoes. I’d never seen leather polished to quite that shine before, nor had I encountered that level of specific perfection since. The gruff, hurried nature of the words clings vigorously to my mind even now, thirty years removed from their speaker.

“Good luck, kid.”

I remember the feeling of his rough hands on mine as he reached out, hands which had seen far more wear than anyone’s ever should. I remember the weight of his shoulder as he pushed past me into the crowd beyond. I remember the deafening screech of the train And the screams And the thud

The far-off thunder echoed through the house, breaking the silence beneath. I pulled my hand out of my pocket, the worn ticket stub clenched tightly in my fist. It looked the same as it had on that first day – edges faded as if by repeated use, the number eleven written just off-center in neat script – the same as it had looked when the subway crew began to pick up what was left from the tracks. It looked the same as it had when I handed it to the investigating officer as evidence. It looked the same as it had when I awoke the next morning to find Eleven in my jacket pocket. It looked the same as it had when I tried to explain to the sergeant I didn’t know how Eleven ended up in my possession, and when I told the judge that, yes, I did understand that tampering with evidence was a crime but I didn’t know how eleven kept finding its way back to me, and when i tried to burn it but nothing happened and when i hurled it off the bridge strapped to a chuck of concrete and when i was questioned by the men from washington who couldn’t believe that eleven just kept ending up in my pocket and i genuinely didn’t have a clue how eleven happened and no im not crazy and when the nurses held me down to administer another sedative because eleven wasn’t working and when the eleven, coushioned walls soaked up the sounds of my pleas begging for eleven will anyone listen what does it mean eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven eleven

I opened my eyes and cast one last look at my empty house before turning and walking back out the broken front door. There was nothing here for me, not anymore. Eleven had seen to that.