My Neighbor-s Son Part 1 - Jack Radley Rafael... Apr 2026

I know this because I was doing the same thing.

I watched from my window as they unloaded: a worn leather armchair, stacks of books in crates, a guitar case with a cracked latch, and boxes labeled Fragile – Records in sharp, angry handwriting. The new neighbor was a woman—sharp-shouldered, dark-haired, always smoking on the porch like she was posing for a black-and-white photograph. Her name, I learned from my mother, was Celeste Rafael. She was a pianist. Divorced. And she had a son.

He turned.

My name is Lena, and I had just turned seventeen. I lived at 42 Maple Street, in the kind of quiet suburban neighborhood where the biggest crime was Mrs. Gable letting her roses choke the sidewalk. The house next door, number 44, had been empty for three years—ever since the old Rafferty woman went to a nursing home. Weeds took over the lawn. The porch swing rusted. I’d grown used to the silence. My Neighbor-s Son PART 1 - Jack Radley Rafael...

And I knew, with absolute certainty, that was a lie. End of Part 1.

He was perched on his own roof, one knee drawn to his chest, a cigarette burning between his fingers even though he couldn’t have been older than me. The moonlight hit his face—sharp jaw, dark eyes, a small scar cutting through his left eyebrow. He wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at the sky, like he was waiting for something to fall.

“You’re the girl from 42,” he said. His voice was low, rougher than I expected. “The one who pretends not to stare.” I know this because I was doing the same thing

He knew my name.

“Sure.” He took a drag from the cigarette, exhaled a plume of smoke that curled up like a question. “Then why are you out here at two a.m., Lena?”

I rolled my eyes. I didn’t need friends. I had a plan: finish high school, move to the city, become invisible until then. New people meant questions. Questions meant answers. Answers meant trouble . Her name, I learned from my mother, was Celeste Rafael

For a long moment, neither of us spoke. Then he smiled—slow, crooked, and dangerous.

I should have climbed back inside. I should have pulled the window shut and locked it and forgotten this ever happened. But something about the way he said my name—like it was a secret we now shared—kept me there.

I froze, half on the branch, one foot on my sill.

“He’s your age,” my mother said, peering through the blinds. “Maybe you’ll be friends.”