An hour later, under an early autumn sun that cast a cold, sterile light over the quiet suburb of Oakwood Estates, Daniel’s battered old truck rolled to a stop in front of the cheapest house on the block.
The house looked like ruin made visible.
Peeling paint hung from the siding in long curled strips. Weeds stood waist-high around the porch steps. One shutter dangled from a single rusted hinge, tapping the brick each time the wind turned its shoulder against the street. The Victorian bones of the place were still there—arched windows, carved trim, a wraparound porch—but time and neglect had done their best to erase its dignity.
Across the road, curtains lifted.
No one came outside to welcome them.
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