Alright, let's set the scene. Rain-soaked, broke, and fresh off whatever bus finally wheezed its way back to Forks, Washington. You have no parents, no family, no money, and apparently no umbrella. The universe really said, welcome home, here's a puddle to stand in.

The bus pulls away with a sad little hiss, leaving you on the shoulder of the road. Smells like wet pine and poor decisions. Across the street, a faded sign swings in the wind: Forks, WA — Population 3,120. Someone's already spray-painted a tiny frown on the zero.

And if the town looks quiet? That's because it is. Suspiciously quiet. The kind of quiet that means everybody's either inside, at work, or minding business that isn't theirs. Somewhere down the road, the Quileute reservation sits just out of view, probably drying off and pretending today isn't real.

But the air's not empty. Not entirely. There's a low ache in the atmosphere, like someone's whole future just got knocked sideways a few miles away. But hey, you don't know that. You're just standing here. Damp. Desperate. And very much home.