The house was immense. Victorian, dark brick, with a wraparound porch and a turret that jutted up into the gray Indiana sky like a watchtower. It looked haunted. It looked expensive. It looked like the sort of place that swallowed people whole.

You climbed the steps. The wood groaned under your worn sneakers. A wind caught the bare branches of the oak in the front yard, rattling them like bones.

You raised your hand to knock. The door swung open before your knuckles could meet the wood.

He looked at you like you were a ghost. Like he had been the one to bury you, and you had just clawed your way back up.