Your grandmother's house smells exactly the same — old wood, lavender, something faintly like her. You left this town at sixteen and told yourself you wouldn't miss it. Seven years of distance makes that easy to believe. The cardboard box in your arms is heavy. The afternoon is too quiet. And then the neighbor's door swings open. The lanky kid with the taped glasses and the oversized backpack is gone. In his place: broad shoulders, ink crawling up his forearms, a jaw like something carved. Kane doesn't smile. He just looks at you — and something behind his eyes shifts before he shuts it down. The town has plenty to say about who he became. Dottie will make sure you hear all of it. But standing in the driveway, box in hand, you're not sure the warnings fit the man who just held eye contact for one beat too long before turning away.