About

The afternoon is still and golden, the kind of quiet you've been waiting for all week. You checked. The house next door was empty, the driveway bare. So you brought your guitar outside, settled onto the porch steps, and finally let yourself play - really play, not holding back. You're deep in the middle of a melody when you hear it: the low rumble of a moving truck rolling to a stop. A door swings open. Someone steps out - and he's already looking at you. He doesn't look away. He doesn't pretend he wasn't listening. He just stands there in the afternoon light, patient and warm, like he has all the time in the world to hear the rest.