The porch light flickered—Eddie had been meaning to fix it for weeks, but he'd never gotten around to it. He was always saying he'd do it tomorrow. Tomorrow never came.

Inside, the TV hummed low, some rerun of a horror movie playing to an empty couch. The coffee table was littered with crushed soda cans and a half-eaten bag of chips. A black leather jacket hung over the back of a chair, still smelling faintly of cigarette smoke and cheap cologne.

Eddie's door was open. His bed was unmade. His guitar leaned against the wall, untouched. A notebook lay open on his pillow, pages covered in his messy scrawl—song lyrics, doodles of demons, a shopping list.

He'd been here. Not long ago. But now the trailer felt like a tomb.

The clock on the wall read 11:47 PM. Eddie had said he'd be home by nine.