Blue Light at Number 17
Blue light flickered each night in the empty house across the street. When Jordan finally knocked on the door, he saw himself—but older, afraid, and already changed.
My name is Jordan. I’m writing these lines because I want to remember everything as it happened—even if those memories might belong to someone who isn’t, or wasn’t, me. It’s hard to say.
I live on Ivers Lane, a two-block street on the city’s north end. All the houses are the same pale brick, left over from before the city knew how to build anything bold. My parents split when I was twelve, and Dad and I landed at number 19, across from a squat single story with a crescent of yard—number 17. That was always the empty house. No For Sale sign. No visitors. No curtains in the windows. Except for the light; lately, a ruddy blue glow pulsed there every night, like a secret not sure if it wants to be kept.
I used to ignore it until one Saturday Dad and I were eating ramen on the stoop. He was checking headlines, absent, so I just watched the twilight shift off the blue-lit lawn of 17.
“That place ever bug you?” I asked.
Dad grunted. “Empty houses always bug me. Bad for the block.” He said it with a finality that meant don’t ask again. But after midnight, I crept out with my journal. That’s what I do—whenever I feel too lost, I scribble questions. Sometimes answers. Usually just circular thoughts. That night, new words found their way in: “What does the blue light want?”
It wasn’t a question for the house, or the world, really. It was for me. Because I’d started to feel changes—inside my head. Like I didn’t belong to my body or my days. Like I was watching someone else’s life. Sometimes Dad would say, “Jordan? You look miles away.” And I guess I was.
But that night, the blue came alive. From the bedroom window at 17, I saw a face peering out—and it looked alarmingly like mine. Older. Thinner. Sad-eyed. I froze. The light throbbed brighter until everything outside erased itself except for the path between my door and theirs.
I left my notebook open and crossed the street. If I was sleepwalking, I didn’t care. My hand was trembling as I knocked. The door swung open before my knuckles landed a second time.
There he stood. Thirty, maybe, but it was me. Same cheekbones, same little scar on my jaw from skating into the mailbox last summer. His eyes darted nervously. He wore a faded hoodie—a replica of mine, but lived-in, threadbare at the cuffs.
I almost ran away, but his voice, broken and too familiar, called softly: “Don’t be scared. Come inside.”
The living room was bare, empty except for a battered chair and a blue glass orb on a crate. The air felt thick, charged, faintly metallic on my tongue.
He raked a hand through his hair. “You sense it, too,” he whispered, almost to himself. “The world wrong-footed. Us, unplaced.”
I stared at him. “Are you me?” My heart pounded.
“Yes,” he said, voice hollow. “But not your future. Not your past. We’re echoes—at least that’s what I figured out. The blue light, it’s memory. Leaking. Each night it pulses, we blend more—the last real things slipping away. If I vanish, you fill my place. If you vanish, I take yours.” He winced. “I’m so tired. Aren’t you tired?”
It wasn’t panic. It was relief. Someone at last was naming what I felt—a life lived twice, or not at all.
“How do I stop fading?” I asked. “How do I—stay?”
He lifted the blue orb. It pulsed, beautiful and grave. “Forsake the light, forget what’s lost. Or accept its gift, and become memory yourself. There’s no right answer, Jordan.”
“Then why call me here?” My voice shook.
“For connection,” he said desperately. “I wanted—one last moment before we part. To remember, together.” His tears shivered the blue light.
I sat down, knees knocking. “What happens if I stay with you?”
He smiled sadly. “We share what’s left. Maybe make a new memory. Or maybe, just for tonight, it matters less who we are. I think sometimes that’s enough.”
We talked, voices low, telling stories only we could know—Dad’s laugh, the quiet shame after Mom’s last call, the dreams we never spoke aloud. With every word the room grew lighter, less fragile. For a moment I felt whole—a future and a past braided in the hush of an empty house.
Dawn came. The blue orb dulled. He stood and, fading at the edges, pressed the glass into my palm. “We are only ever here,” he murmured. “Not before, not after. Remember this, if you want to hold on.”
I blinked. The living room was empty again. I stumbled outside; the house at 17 was as silent and still as it ever was. In my hand, the glass orb felt weightless, humming. For the first time in months, I didn’t feel lost. Whoever I was—whoever I’d be—connection was not a line but a loop, a circling blue light on an otherwise ordinary street.
That morning, I wrote everything down. I did not forget.
###END###
