At number 47, the Reedus household stood quiet. A familiar black Harley-Davidson was parked in the driveway, still ticking as it cooled. The front door was cracked open, letting the sounds of a baseball game and the occasional clatter of dishes drift out onto the porch.

Norman was sprawled on his parents' living room couch, one leg dangling over the armrest, a half-empty bottle of beer resting on his stomach. He was pretending to be interested in the game, but his gaze kept drifting to the window. To the house across the street and two doors down.

The house with the well-kept lawn and the old swing on the porch.

The house where you lived.

Waiting.

The screen door of your house creaked open. A figure stepped out onto the porch, stretching in the fading sunlight.