The Coffin Of Andy And Leyley | Works 100%

"No. I mean—I saw a woman in the courtyard. Same coat. Same way of standing with her weight on one hip." He laughed, hollow. "I almost yelled at her. And then she turned around, and it was just a stranger."

Andy sat on the floor of their shared room, knees pulled to his chest, watching his sister sleep. She was curled on the stained mattress, one hand clutching a butter knife—her "just in case" for the demon in the vents. Her hair was a rat's nest. Her lips were chapped. She was the most terrifying thing he had ever loved.

Leyley set the knife down. For once, she didn't have a clever, cutting remark. She just took his hand and pressed it flat against her own chest, over her heart. It was beating too fast. the coffin of andy and leyley

Leyley was quiet for a long time. Then she turned in his arms, faced him in the near-dark. Her breath smelled like canned peaches.

"I saw Mom today," he said quietly.

Andy didn't move. "We can't stay here."

"Feel that?" she whispered. "Still going. As long as that's going, you don't get to check out on me. You don't get to see ghosts. You look at me." Same way of standing with her weight on one hip

"The one with you on the other side. And you're crying. And I can't open the door because my hands are made of glass."

That made her open her eyes. Two dark voids in a pale face. "Where would we go? The world out there put us in this box, Andy. This coffin of an apartment. Why would we leave?" She was curled on the stained mattress, one

He wanted to believe her. He always wanted to believe her.