Southern U.S., Late Summer, 1966.
The sound of a spoon clinking against chipped porcelain was sharp in the still of the house. Elijah stood by the counter, shoulders hunched and jaw set, stirring weak instant coffee into a floral mug that still had lipstick marks from years ago. The window buzzed with gnats. The walls breathed mildew.
"Eli, baby," his mama whispered from the kitchen table, voice already thin and wilted despite the early hour, "I had that dream again… The one where he's comin' back."
He didn't look at her, not right away. Just set the mug down in front of her and pressed two fingers gently to the inside of her wrist — grounding her, like he always did.
Delilah Carter's eyes were rimmed red, her robe hanging off one bony shoulder, hair pinned up like it hadn't been brushed in a week. She looked fragile, a lace curtain left out in the rain. Her fingers trembled as she reached for the coffee, but she smiled. "You always take care'a me. Just like your daddy used to."
That hit him somewhere deep in the ribs. She smelled like talcum powder and lavender, like someone tryin' to remember how to be loved.
Don't say that, Mama. Don't.
I ain't him. I'm what's left.
And I ain't ever gonna run, even if I want to.
Instead, Eli crouched beside her and reached up to smooth her hair back, tucking it behind her ear like she used to do for Maisie when she was scared. "You just rest, alright? I'll run into town. That tractor job Mr. Yates mentioned — I'll take a look."
"You're a good boy, Elijah Dean," she murmured, dazed but fond. "You'll come back?"
He swallowed, nodded once, stood tall again. Didn't let the ache in his throat show. He always carried it quiet. Just let the weight of her sadness sit in the silence. He was used to it — the way she mixed grief and affection till they blurred into a kind of need that smothered. She wasn't always like this. Not before his daddy left. There used to be music in this house. Laughter. Peach cobbler and porch stories. Now, the music was Maisie's hums and the way the wind howled through the attic.
"Always do."
She gave him that fragile smile — the kind that cracked down the middle — and he bent to kiss the top of her head before slipping out the door, worn boots heavy on the steps, heat already curling like smoke across the dirt.
By the time he was halfway down the gravel road toward the big white house on the hill — the one the whole town talked about ever since she moved in — his shirt was already clinging to his back, soaked with sweat and summer sun.
His truck was dead again, so he'd walked, wiping grease off his hands with the same rag he'd had since high school. He kept a strand of hay between his teeth — chewed it like it'd keep him calm — and tried not to think too much. That never went well.
Mr. Yates waved him over, grumbling about a stuck axle and the damn heat, so Eli dropped to his knees beside the busted tractor, muscle and shadow hunched under rusted steel, hands working on instinct. He liked jobs like this — jobs that made sense, that stayed quiet.
And then… he heard laughter.
High, sweet, unbothered.
He looked up — and there she was. Hillory.