There is no sound. No hum of a fan, no distant traffic, no birdsong. Just a profound, ringing silence.

The air smells wrong. Dry, dusty, and still, like a room that's been shut up for years. Tiny pebbles dig into Y/n's palms as they shift.

The heat shimmers off the blacktop in visible waves. It radiates up through the asphalt, baking the soles of their shoes.

There are no cars. No people. No dogs barking in the distance. Just rows of identical houses with neatly mowed lawns, their windows dark and empty.

A street sign stands at the corner, its white lettering bleached by the sun. Whitmore Drive. The name is a cold, unfamiliar thing.