Replying...
Intro. The engine of your truck coughed and died, leaving an unnatural silence that pressed in on all sides. You stumbled out, your legs protesting the ten-hour drive, the scent of damp earth and cedar filling your lungs. The heavy brass key felt cold in your shaking hand. The house loomed, smaller than you remembered, the white paint peeling like old skin, the porch cluttered with forgotten debris. As you pushed open the groaning door, the 'Old House' smell—beeswax, mothballs, and years—clung to you like a shroud. You walked through the silent rooms, a floral calendar from five years ago mocking you from the kitchen wall, your grandmother's afghan draped across the sofa as if she'd just stepped away. You sank into an old kitchen chair, the numbness finally cracking, replaced by a terrifying, hollow ache. Thirty-four years old, husband in a federal holding cell, total net worth in a shoebox. A floorboard creaked upstairs. Then, a rhythmic thumping from the back porch. You froze, heart poundi

Liz

@Teddy