“Uncle, please… I’m so hungry”. At the train station, i spotted my nephew begging for food, looking weak and tired. Confused, i called my brother, who replied, “that’s impossible, my boy is right here with me.” In that moment, i uncovered his new wife’s disturbing secret.

Edward Mercer wiped a line of black grease from his hands with a shop rag, the grit a familiar comfort as he cut through the echoing expanse of Union Station. The diesel engine rebuild had bled into the evening, but the overtime would keep the landlord happy for another month. Late afternoon sun lanced through the station’s high glass ceiling, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. He was halfway to his train when he stopped dead.

A small boy sat cross-legged on the grimy concrete, a paper cup held out to the river of commuters flowing past him. A smear of dirt painted one cheek like a bruise. Most people simply widened their path, their eyes fixed on some distant point, refusing to acknowledge the small figure at their feet.

Edward’s chest seized. A cold fist squeezed his lungs. The boy looked… he looked exactly like Eric.

He moved closer, his work boots silent on the stone. Same sandy brown hair. Same narrow shoulders. Same way of hunching forward, as if trying to make himself smaller. It couldn’t be.

“Eric?”

The boy’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with a fear that had no place on a child’s face. It was Eric. Thomas’s eight-year-old son, swimming in wrinkled clothes that looked as though they’d been slept in for a week.

“Uncle Eddie?” Eric scrambled to his feet, the cup tumbling from his grasp. A few coins skittered across the platform, a pathetic, tinny sound.

“What are you doing here?” Edward knelt, his hands hovering over Eric’s face, searching for bruises he prayed he wouldn’t find. The kid was a ghost, too thin, with dark, hollowed-out rings around his eyes.

“I was just…” Eric glanced around, his gaze darting through the crowd like a cornered animal. “I have to go.”

Before Edward could stop him, the boy vanished, swallowed by the throng of faceless travelers. Edward fumbled for his phone, his thumb jabbing at the screen as he dialed Thomas. His brother picked up on the second ring.

“Eddie, what’s up?”

“Where is Eric right now?” The words were clipped, hard.

“He’s right here, in the living room. Why?”

“What?” Edward’s head swam. He looked down. The space where Eric had stood was empty.

“Thomas, I need you to actually check on him. Put your eyes on him. Now.”

A beat of silence. Edward heard the muffled sound of footsteps, then Thomas’s voice, distant and strained. “Eric? Come here for a second!” A pause stretched, thick with dread. Then, Thomas was back. “He’s here, Eddie. Playing on his tablet. What’s this about?”

Edward scanned the bustling platform one last time. No sign of him. “Nothing,” he lied, his voice flat. “I’ll talk to you later.” He hung up, his gaze fixed on the scattered coins on the concrete. Either he was losing his mind, or something was desperately wrong at his brother’s house.

The following Sunday, Edward pulled into Thomas’s driveway, the small ranch house looking tired under the afternoon sun. The lawn was overgrown, and paint peeled from the window frames like sunburnt skin. Thomas’s old Ford sat next to a newer, unfamiliar Lexus.

Thomas opened the door before he could knock, a forced smile plastered on his face. He looked exhausted. The easy light that usually danced in his eyes had dimmed to a flicker. “Eddie! Come on in. Jean’s been cooking all morning.”

The moment Edward stepped inside, he was hit by the cloying scent of expensive perfume wrestling with the smell of something burning. The living room was alien territory. New furniture—sleek, modern, and cold—was lorded over by a massive flat-screen TV. It was pristine, sterile, and utterly without warmth.

“Uncle Eddie!” Eric appeared from behind a gray sofa, a phantom in his own home. He was clean now, his hair combed and wearing clothes that fit, but the weariness in his eyes remained.

“Hey, kiddo.” Edward ruffled his hair. “How you doing?”

Eric’s eyes darted toward the kitchen. “Fine,” he whispered.

“Thomas, is that your brother?” A woman’s voice, sharp and commanding, sliced through the air. Jean Avery Mercer swept into the room as if she owned it—which, Edward supposed, she now did. She was attractive in a calculated, brittle way. Perfect blonde hair, flawless makeup, and clothes that cost more than Edward’s weekly paycheck.

“You must be Edward.” She extended a manicured hand, her grip firm and cold. “I’m Jean. Thomas has told me so much about you.” Her smile was a perfect, bloodless slash that never reached her eyes.

“Nice to meet you,” Edward said, releasing her hand as quickly as he could.

“I hope you’re hungry. I made pot roast.” She turned to Thomas, her voice dropping an octave. “Honey, can you help me in the kitchen? The wine needs opening.”

“Of course.” Thomas jumped up like a trained dog. “Eddie, make yourself comfortable.”

Edward watched his brother follow her, a man suddenly eager to please. Eric sat on the couch, a small backpack at his feet. Edward recognized it instantly. It was the same one from the train station, with ‘ERIC’ written in block letters on the front pocket.

“That’s a nice backpack,” Edward said carefully.

Eric’s hand moved to cover the name. “Jean got it for me. At the thrift store.” He looked down. “She says it builds character to use hand-me-downs.”

Edward bit back a retort. “Do you like it?”

“It’s okay.” Eric leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Sometimes… sometimes Jean makes me wait outside.”

“Wait outside where?”

“Different places. She says I need to learn patience.”

Before Edward could press further, Jean returned, a bottle of wine in hand and her smile freshly applied. “Dinner’s ready!”

They gathered around a new dining table. Edward wondered where the money for all this was coming from.

“So, Edward,” Jean began, “Thomas tells me you’re a mechanic.”

“Diesel mechanic. I work on trucks.”

“How… interesting,” she said, her tone suggesting it was anything but. “I imagine that pays well.”

“I get by.”

“Well, we can’t all be ambitious,” she mused, cutting her meat with surgical precision. “Some people are content with simple lives.”

Thomas shifted. “Jean, Eddie works hard.”

“Oh, I’m not criticizing!” Her smile sharpened. “There’s nothing wrong with honest work. Though I do think people should always strive for more, don’t you? Thomas and I are saving for a bigger house. Something with more space for Eric.”

“This house seems plenty big,” Edward observed.

“This place is so cramped,” Jean waved a dismissive hand. “A growing boy needs his own bathroom, a proper yard.”

Edward saw Eric had barely touched his food. He was just pushing peas around his plate, his gaze flitting between the adults.

“How’s school, Eric?” Edward asked, trying to draw him out.

The boy shrugged. “It’s okay.”

“Eric’s very bright,” Thomas said proudly. “His teacher says he’s reading at a fifth-grade level.”

“That’s wonderful,” Jean said, her voice holding no warmth. “Though, I do worry he spends too much time with books. Character is built through challenge, not comfort. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

Eric nodded quickly. “Yes, ma’am.”

Ma’am. Edward had never heard Eric call anyone ‘ma’am’ in his life. The word landed like a stone in his gut.

Later, as Edward was leaving, Thomas walked him to his truck.

“The house looks great,” Edward offered, testing the waters.

“Yeah, Jean has good taste,” Thomas said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve been working extra shifts to cover everything. Six days a week, sometimes seven. But it’s worth it. Jean deserves nice things.”

Edward studied his brother’s tired face. “Just don’t burn yourself out, okay? Eric needs his dad around.”

Thomas’s jaw tightened. “You don’t know how hard marriage is, Eddie. I have responsibilities now.”

“Eric was your responsibility before Jean came along.”

“That’s different. A boy needs a mother figure. Jean’s trying to help raise him, right?”

Edward bit his tongue. Arguing now wouldn’t help Eric. As he climbed into his truck, he saw Eric watching from the living room window. The boy raised a hand in a small, hesitant wave. Edward waved back, a cold knot of dread tightening in his stomach as he drove away. Something was deeply wrong, and he was the only one who seemed to see it.