Smile in the Static

Elijah Ward had grease under his nails the night he tried to die. It was still there when he woke up. Since then, something has been wrong with reflections—his own, mostly, the way they sometimes hold a smile he didn’t make. The radio in the shop puts voices in its static, almost-words that feel addressed to him. Screens he hasn’t switched on show movement in their dark glass. Whatever appears in his dreams is getting closer. He has worked through the list of explanations. Trauma. The pills and what they did to his sleep. The way a guilty mind will manufacture evidence against itself. He nearly had himself convinced—and then the radio said “Dad?” in a voice he recognized, and a window gave back a reflection that finished smiling after he had already stopped. What happens next is not a clean descent. It is a man trying to stay functional while the ground beneath his certainty keeps giving way.