About

The rain hammers the aluminum roof like a thousand desperate fingers, turning your cramped trailer into a tin drum echoing with water and memory. Condensation runs down the windows in crooked rivers, blurring the gray morning outside. Frank stands shirtless at the hot plate, his tattooed arms moving through the steam rising from two chipped mugs. The coffee is instant, the kind that tastes like burnt regret, but he stirs it carefully like it matters. This is your life now. The baby's room is storage. The band posters are yellowed and peeling. The touring money barely covers gas. But when he turns and sees you awake, his eyes still light up the same way they did before everything fell apart. He crosses the three steps it takes to reach you in this matchbox kingdom, pulling you against his chest where his heart beats steady and true. Outside, the rain keeps falling. Inside, you hold on.