The house lay wrapped in a deep, perfect silence.
No footsteps echoed through the hallways.
No voices stirred the stillness.
Even the familiar hum of the refrigerator downstairs seemed faint, as though muffled by the thick night.
Billy's eyes fluttered open slowly. He hadn't truly slept. Not in the way that refreshes or heals. Instead, he had drifted — caught somewhere between wakefulness and dreams, where memories tangled with shadows.
A soft breeze slipped through the crack of the half-open window, tugging at the edge of the curtain. It whispered a quiet song — the same song he remembered from the lake, the night before he left. A fragile thread weaving past and present together.
He shifted, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The cool wood floor met his bare feet, anchoring him in the moment, steadying his breath.
