Six pops out of the ground in front of a comfy estate located in northern Indiana. The assumption was right, they had legitimately bled here before in their past. It was a shot in the dark to assume that this y/n l/n file was yours but, this just makes it seem even more official.
The two teenagers had made a mutual agreement to give those strange files a chance to merely see if these people in the newspapers were possibly forgotten family members. This is what Six's file had inside of it:
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excuse my lil typo:( *named*
Also, the folder had another paper inside of it that had the whereabouts of Marlen Crane because he was later put on house arrest after finishing his one-year sentence. Eleven found her mother's name and address but the best that Six could find was their Uncles name.
There was a small doubt in the back of Six's mind that kept them swaying in their spot. Maybe Hopper was telling the truth about your mother, maybe she really was gone for good. But you try reminding yourself to stay hopeful and start to stalk up the estate stairs, soaking in the Red American maple trees.
Despite there being beautiful trees in the yard, this house seemed abandoned and lonely on the side of the long road. The house didn't have anything outside that any other house would have, such as a car, bike, plants, nothing. It was just a house with wonderful trees in its front yard.
Six clutches the folder against their chest as they keep knocking on the beige door of the lonely house, not shying away from volume in even the slightest. Stepping away from the door is like taking that long-held breath and pushing it out for the first time in forever. Your mind goes a hundred miles an hour as you can feel the approaching of a mellow heartbeat circling the house to answer the front door.
The absence of any voices makes you gulp, jaw clenching in fear of what Marlen would think if he saw a random teenager knocking on his door with files from the worst day of his life. If he was angry, you'd understand. If he kicked you out of his estate, you'd understand. And if he screamed at you, you'd understand.
But when the door swings open with barely as much as a squeak, you reconsider what type of person you assumed he was. This was definitely the Marlen Crane in the papers, and the ankle monitor on his leg confirms it.
The obvious tattoos down his arms and neck are the first thing to catch your eye before you can even bother to look at his face. You take a cautious step back and avert your eyes, loudly gulping in regret for coming here in the first place. Marlen looks you to your feet up to your eyes, brows furrowed in genuine question. The man clears his throat before he speaks with a gruff voice.
