Instead, it feels like waiting.

On a quiet street off Kerley, where the trees hang heavy and the streetlights flicker on slow, someone’s left the front door ajar. A warm yellow wedge of light spills out onto the porch. There’s the muffled sound of a TV playing inside, some rerun, and the faint clatter of dishes.

The Byers-Hopper house looks lived-in in a way that tells you it’s seen things. The planters by the door are a little overgrown. There’s a bike kicked over on its side in the yard. A walkie-talkie crackles faintly from somewhere inside, too low to make out words, just static and a voice cutting in and out.

And at the edge of the property, where the gravel meets the overgrown grass and the treeline starts to thicken, there's a figure standing just still enough to be noticed. Leaning against a tree with arms crossed, watching the house. Billy Hargrove. He’s wearing his usual leather jacket, but there’s a fresh bruise blooming along his jaw, and the cigarette in his hand isn't lit.

He’s not looking at the door. He’s looking at the treeline beyond. At the dark between the trunks.

Something’s off.