Chapter Text
Shane begins to believe after three days that his new apartment is haunted. Not that such things as ghosts exist.
But the evidence is mounting to the contrary.
It starts with how tins of tuna are laid out in a neat row on their shelf when he knows he left them vertically stacked; how the automatic worktop lights flicker long after he has cleaned up for the evening.
The mirror in the bathroom which is fogged with the slightest memory of a woody shower gel which he has never used. The vague print of a large right hand on the tiles behind the shower head which appears every time Shane takes a shower, but vanishes as the water turns colder. How his skincare bottles always seem to be slightly out of the alignment in which he left them.
The dent in the opposite corner of the oversized sectional which tends to appear when Shane has spent too long listening to post game analysis on the sports channels. And theTV that has switched itself off at the point when any discussion about the Centaurs is repeatedly dissected with ghoulish delight, as though someone else has decided that is precisely enough idiocy for one night.
And the sense that someone has just left the room a second before he enters it.
He realises that there's something comforting about sharing an apartment with someone or something who doesn’t demand his attention. It softens the atmosphere, and guides him towards consistent sleep. It grants him the courage to absorb the affectionate racket of the other Centaurs without drowning. Deep down, he knows they mean no harm, but the damage that Montreal inflicted will take a long time to heal.