Chapter Text
September 27th 2026
It's funny how time can be captured and held still in houses. Of course, this is dependent on its owner, but time never moves fast in houses. It takes effort to update the wallpaper, money to remodel the kitchen, and in the end, the house will never catch up with ever-changing trends. If you want to experience time-travel, just step into an old house. 1224 Maple Street in Hawkins, Indiana, is one of these little blips. The Wheelers have occupied the two-story red brick home since 1971, and as of now, one Wheeler remains. Walking in (the owner offers tours to all), the interior has preserved every bit of character it possessed 5 decades ago. Family pictures line the hallways, and the late Mrs. Wheelers' floral wallpaper has been stabilized, spot-glued, and sealed. Plumbing, carpeting, and telephone poles are the only things that have changed, since carpeting is a pain to clean, and basic maintenance is essential for upkeep. The now Mr. Wheeler, at the age of 55, has held old Father Time by the beard, and this is evident in every inch of the place.
If you have never heard the name Wheeler, by all means take a look at the science fiction section of the library, or your mother's bookshelf. With best-selling works such as Elsewhere, Party Lost, and The Last Campaign, Michael Wheeler was considered one of the best-selling 90s sci-fi authors, drawing inspiration from childhood D&D campaigns as well as his life experiences during a classified government experiment in Hawkins. The novels were considered modern classics, selling 100,000 in their first year on the market and becoming holy grails in family homes. Mike has since quietly retired to his own childhood home, waiting out his days on the rickety porch.
There is a reason Mike captured time so securely in the house at 1224 Maple Street. This is where it all started, his reason for writing, his core memories of youth. He never wants to leave those moments. Since then, everyone has left. His parents have passed, his sisters live across the country, and his best friends are living free and happy, always checking in monthly–all but one. No one in Hawkins, not even Mike, has gotten a phone call from New York in 5 long years. He used to look forward to Sunday evening chats, the small talk that their conversations dried up to be. But the old phone had been gathering dust on the jack.
The last Mike heard of Will was from Joyce in 2021. He had just finalized a long and difficult divorce with his husband of 10 years. Camron? Cavin? Mike could never remember. He did know that whatever his name was had been completely blindsided by the papers, as was the rest of the Byers family. Will and the former Mr. Byers had been together since 1993, and they had a loving reception in 2011. If love were real, those two seemed to have it. Love is fiction, apparently. Since the divorce, Will had completely isolated himself from all family and friends. Filled with concern over her youngest, Joyce (at the ripe age of 80) jumped on a plane with her eldest two years back to see him. Mike hasn't heard from her since then either. It had been rather lonely on Maple Street, and the old porch groaned for new company.
One Sunday evening, as Mike was heating a pot of chocolate on the stove for his nightly porchtime stargazing, a miracle occurred. The phone rang. Not Mike's mobile (which he still hadn't gotten used to since Lucas made him switch), but the dusty phone on the jack. For the first time in 5 years, Mike felt a sense of familiarity, nostalgia. Perhaps Joyce and Jonathan had brought Will out of his slump. Perhaps they could catch up like old times. Maybe Mike could catch a plane to New York. It would cost him nothing, and they used to talk about it constantly. Mike picked up the phone, blew on it, and held it to his ear:
“ Hello?”
“Mike? Honey?”
It was Joyce on the other line.
“Mrs. Byers, it's been so long! How are you? Where are you calling from?”
“Hon, how soon can you buy a plane ticket to LaGuardia?”
“...I can buy one tonight. Is everything alright?”
There was a pause.
“How is Will? I'd love to say hi.”
“Oh, honey…that's why I'm calling. Will passed away last night.”
A silence followed. So profound, Mike almost thought he might have misheard. It was not until he heard a hitched sob on the other line that he realized he had not. A ringing began in Mike's ears. What was their last catch-up on the phone? Will promised they would come down for Christmas. He would be on a plane as soon as the papers were filed. Yes. Yes. This was just a fluke, a trick. Will could never die.
Mike missed Joyce's jumbled explanations. That Will had succumbed to chronic lung damage from long-term exposure to toxic air particles. That it was Will’s time in the upside down, and his lack of immediate treatment that caused it. In the end, the cause didn't matter. Will was dead. Time had finally escaped 1224 Maple Street and left a scar in its wake. Mike almost missed Joyce's last few words.
“He left you something honey, in his will. Please come soon.”