Nalchael’s Promise

I have learned that there are two kinds of secrets. There are the frail, brittle sort—tidbits and trifles that flit from porch to porch on summer evenings, smelling faintly of honeysuckle and fried okra, carried on the easy gossip that keeps a town alive. And there are the heavy ones, like stones sunk deep in a red-clay river: the water of a life hurries over them, sun dances on the surface, and few ever guess what weight lies hidden under all that warm, ordinary light.

Mine is of the second kind.

From the first day I stepped into the little house on Juniper Hill Drive– more affectionately known as Hayes Hill–and smelled cornbread from the Johnsons’ on the other side of town cooling on the counter, and felt the hum of a ceiling fan turning lazily overhead, I have been keeping it. I have kept it at the breakfast table with the cicadas already buzzing outside, and in the cool shade of the front porch where the rocking chairs move with a rhythm older than memory. I have kept it during Friday night football games, under a sky so thick with stars you’d swear heaven had spilled them, and in the deep stillness just before dawn when the only sound is a train whistle echoing across the fields.

To everyone here, I am Nolan Hayes. To the cashier at the Bargain Mart, to the old men playing checkers outside Mason’s Feed & Supply, to the pastor at First Baptist, and the kids down at the gas station selling boiled peanuts from a paper bag—Nolan Hayes.

To Brady Hayes, I am his brother.

That is not, strictly speaking, true—but it is true in the ways that matter. The county clerk would vouch for it, and so would every neighbor who’s seen us grow up together, shoulders bumping in family photos tacked to the fridge. Brady tells me everything that matters in his world—except maybe for a few things a boy keeps to himself. I tell him everything, too.

Almost.

The almost is my secret. A big one. One I can’t tell—not to Brady, not to the people who think they’re my parents, not to anyone at all. Because Dean and Lila Hayes aren’t my parents, and Brady isn’t really my brother. I was sent here for him, and him alone.

I am his Guardian. His Angel.

We don’t use the latter word much anymore, except in Sunday sermons or when someone talks about babies. But in another age, my kind stood watch from places high enough to hear the wind speak in more than one voice. We knew the true names of things and walked roads that bent to our feet.

And we are never just placed into a life—we are placed into the memories of it as well. When we arrive, it’s as if we’ve always been there. The neighbors remember us from church picnics, doctors recall us hearing our first cries, and family photos show our faces where they need to be. We become part of the story so completely that no one ever questions how we came to belong.

Sometimes, when the one we guard grows older, we leave. Not always in presence—sometimes only in body. We might move away, or we might linger at a distance, watching from the edges, unseen but still there. The bond doesn’t break, but the shape of the work changes.

Here, I wear worn jeans and lace up my shoes every morning, and pretend to fumble with my truck keys. I came to Fairhaven, Palmetto the week Brady was born. From the very start, it was clear he’d been stitched together with more than his fair share of gifts. By the time he could talk, he was already asking questions that made grown folks pause mid-sentence; by the time he could run, there wasn’t a race in the neighborhood he didn’t win. Schoolwork came as easily to him as catching a ball, and catching a ball came as easily as sketching the curve of a heron’s wing or picking out a tune on the guitar after hearing it only once. There’s a steadiness to his kindness—quiet and genuine—but it lives alongside a restless streak, the sort that makes a boy’s eyes linger on the edge of a field or over the far ridge, wondering what might be waiting just past what he can see.

For as long as I’ve been here, I’ve felt the other thing too—the watching.

The first time it showed itself was on a Friday night in late October, under the glare of the high school stadium lights. In Jensen County, Friday nights belong to football. The air was heavy with barbecue smoke and damp pine, the bleachers packed so tight you could feel the crowd’s heartbeat.

Brady was the reason most of them were there. He wasn’t just good—he was electric. Quick as a whip, sharp-eyed, and moving with that uncanny field sense that always put him where the ball was headed before anyone else knew it. Recruiters had started showing up in their folding chairs his freshman year, trying to look casual. Kids wore his number in the stands.

I was on the sidelines, helmet in hand, waiting for our offense to get the ball back. Brady was out there at cornerback, crouched and reading Northend's quarterback like he was in his mind. The crowd’s attention was fixed on him—just like it always was.

We’d been “The Hayes Brothers” for as long as anyone in town could remember. Two boys who’d come up through rec league, middle school ball, and Friday night lights, carrying more than our share of wins between us. People expected talent when they heard our name—Brady delivered it in spades. I gave them just enough to start the legend.

I knew every angle, every gap in the defense before the ball was even snapped—but I also knew I couldn’t show it. Couldn’t let my hands move as fast as they wanted to, couldn’t run at the speed I was built for. Out here, I had to be ordinary. Solid. Dependable. I could run a clean route, make the catch, and hold my block a little longer than most—but that was it. The kind of player folks might nod at in passing, not the one whose name they’d still be saying over coffee come Saturday morning. That honor belonged to my little brother.

That was fine by me. I didn’t care about being a star or padding my stats. Football was just the means that kept me close to Brady, the excuse to stand on the same field and watch his back without anyone questioning why. My real work had nothing to do with playbooks or yard lines—and everything to do with the job I’d been sent here to do.

The scoreboard glowed against the night like a stubborn lantern.

The ball was snapped, and just as he raced the receiver across the fifty-yard line, the lights flickered. Only for a heartbeat, but in that breath, something slid into the world. The noise dropped into a hollow place, and somewhere high in the stands, a baby gave one sharp cry before going quiet.

It was here.

It would be quick. A blink of an eye. A shoelace just a centimeter too long. A shoulder half an inch too low.

I whispered the name of the boy I looked after, laying his name like a stone to keep the thing out. The air smoothed over again, and people blinked, muttered about old wiring, and went back to the game.

Brady read the quarterback like an open book, cut across the field, and snagged the ball out of the air in a perfect interception. The crowd roared as he tore down the sideline. Ten yards. Twenty. Thirty. Until he was bounding his way into our endzone, tossing the ball to the ref. His best friend, Harvey, slammed on his helmet in celebration.

But the Watcher knew I had seen it. And I knew it had seen me.

It didn’t try again until a Tuesday night two weeks later, slipping in through the kitchen window where Lila likes to “let the house breathe.” I was standing at the counter, waiting on popcorn in the microwave, when the air shifted—not cold exactly, but wrong. The familiar smells of butter and dish soap flattened into nothing. The hum of the fridge took on a voice and said my name in a way I didn’t care for.

I set the popcorn down and took in the darkness that had settled in. Upstairs, Brady’s footsteps moved toward the window.

I found him sitting on the roof, hoodie loose at his neck, a river stone rolling between his fingers. His gaze was somewhere far beyond the yard.

“Hey,” he said, like I’d just come in from grabbing the mail, not stepped out into the night to keep him from the edge of something sharp.

I dropped down beside him, the shingles still warm under my palms. “Got the call from Coach Reynolds tonight,” I said. “University of Palmetto’s making it official. I’m suiting up for them next fall.”

He managed a small smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s great, Nol. Really. Guess I’ve got one more reason to try to get there.”

“You will,” I said, meaning it.

He looked away, back to the dark horizon. “Not if I keep playing like I’ve been playing in practice. Not if I keep… messing up. And Mr. Kent really has it out for me. It's because he hates student athletes. Says they get too much with too few consequences. He grades me ten times harder than anyone else. Last week, I nailed a derivative problem, had every step right, but because I didn’t simplify the final answer exactly the way he wanted, he marked me off. Five points gone for something that doesn’t even change the answer. He didn't do it to anyone else... I checked."

I knew what that meant—because I could feel it. The thing circling him. One of them. A Watcher. Not the kind that guards, but the kind cast out from the light. It didn’t knock on doors or shatter windows; it slipped into a man’s mind and made itself at home. This one had found Brady through the cracks—turning every missed throw, every bad grade, into proof that he wasn’t enough. Pressed its hand over his chest in the middle of the night until he woke up struggling to breathe.

It didn’t need to break him in one night. It was patient. It only had to convince him, piece by piece, that the climb wasn’t worth it.

I shrugged. “Sounds like you’re letting him live in your head rent-free. I say evict him and put those five points toward winning on Saturday.”

Brady huffed a short laugh. “Yeah… guess five points in calc won’t matter much if we put thirty on the board.”

From there, the talk drifted—away from grades and games, into the kind of easy back-and-forth we’d always had. He asked what I thought of the University of Palmetto’s campus—our state’s pride, the kind of place kids grew up dreaming about wearing that red jersey for—if Coach Reynolds really planned to keep me at tight end next year, or if I’d even be on offense at all. I told him about the weight room, the painted grass that didn’t smell like wet pine after every rain, and the way the stadium lights hit different when the stands wrapped all the way around you. It wasn’t about convincing him—it was just the kind of talk that made things feel normal again.

The thing waited until the next December to take a real swing. I knew it was coming; I’d been counting the cracks in him. It came on a chilly winter night, through the most unremarkable thing in the world.

I spotted him before I even realized I was holding my breath.

Brady was standing out on the county line bridge, hoodie loose at the neck, hands buried deep in his pockets. The night air clung heavy with the scent of pine and river silt, the stones under his feet dark from the downpour this afternoon.

He didn’t hear my car pull up.

I’d driven in from Corinth that night. My excuse was coming home to see him play in round one of the playoffs. I hadn’t even told him I was coming back yet—thought I’d surprise him at breakfast in the morning. I’d taken the backroads, and there he was, framed in the glow of the lone streetlamp that illuminated the bridge.

I could see it in the way his shoulders hunched forward, the way his gaze hung over the dark water below. I didn’t have to guess why. I already knew. I always know when it comes to Brady. Still, Harvey had called me earlier that week, voice low like he was passing along bad news from a funeral. Said Brady had bombed another physics exam, and he was worried about how he was taking it. Not the first one this semester. For most people, it’d just be a bad grade. For Brady, it was a warning shot at the scholarship that was his ticket out of here—and to the same college I’d left for a few months prior.

I walked up slowly, dirt grinding under my footsteps. “Shouldn’t you be on a float parading down Main Street right about now?”

“Nolan?” He startled slightly, glancing over. “What’re you doing here?”

I kept my tone casual, like I’d just happened to take this route. “I always take this way home. Figured I’d stop by before you big-shot your way through playoffs.”

He tried for a smile, but it faltered. “Not sure I’ll be playing anywhere after this weekend.”

I leaned on the railing beside him. “You talking about football or something else?”

He shrugged, eyes still fixed on the black water. “Physics test. Another one. Coach says one more fail, and I won’t be able to pass my class… and I’m benched. Which means no scholarship. Which means no University of Palmetto.”

His voice was steady, but I could hear the weight in it. A Watcher was there too—unseen by him, but I could feel it draped over his back like a shadow that didn’t belong. Whispering failure in his ear. Twisting a bad day into a dead end.

I nudged his shoulder. “You’re being dramatic. A bad grade doesn’t erase your shot at Palmetto—trust me, I’ve tested that theory.”

Brady gave me a sideways look, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Yeah, but you’re… you. You could trip your way through a semester, and no one would bat an eye. I’m not so sure I’ve got that kind of luck.”

I smirked. “Then it’s a good thing you’ve got me. I’ll loan you some of mine—interest free. Call it a family discount.”

That earned me a small, reluctant laugh, but I could still feel the weight in his voice, the way the doubt clung even when he tried to make it a joke.

“I didn’t come back here to watch you give up, Brady boy,” I said, aiming for light but letting just enough steel slip through so it might stick. “Playoffs are tomorrow. You’re still in this.”

He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah. Until I’m not.”

“Alright,” I said, pushing off the rail, “enough standing here acting like we’re in some sad country song. Let’s go home. I’ll make you a milkshake.”

That earned me a side glance. “Mom banned you from using the blender, remember? Last time you tried to make me a milkshake, you broke it and somehow burned the ice cream.”

I shrugged. “So I’ve got nowhere to go but up.”

He almost smiled, and that was enough. “C’mon,” I said, nudging his shoulder, “before a semi comes through here and you have to explain to Coach why you got flattened before the big game.”

He snorted. “Yeah, all the easier to break through the o-line.”

“There you go,” I said, starting toward the cars. “Already thinking strategy.”

A Watcher would be back. They always come back. But so would I. I’d still be here—burning toast, ruining milkshakes, losing socks, and making sure he actually eats breakfast on game day. I’d be the one reminding him to bring a jacket when the humidity finally breaks in October, even if he rolls his eyes and throws it in the backseat.

And when the day comes—if it ever did—that he knows what I really am, I’ll answer him. I’ll tell him my true name the way it was meant to be said, and he’ll understand why I’ve always shown up when I do.

Until then, I’m just Nolan Hayes. Brother. Son. Teammate. The one who stands where he’s placed and keeps watch, even when no one else knows there’s something to guard against.