After burying my wife, I finally unlocked the barn she had never allowed me to enter. For 37 years, it had been sealed off, a place she insisted held nothing but old tools and useless clutter. I expected dust, silence, and memories long forgotten.

That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. My mind would not stop racing. I kept thinking about Dennis. About the ladder. About what Detective Walsh had said, about how Dennis was still out there, free, unpunished. I tried to close my eyes. I tried to tell myself that everything was fine, that the cameras would catch him if he tried anything, that the new locks would keep us safe.

But I could not shake the feeling that something bad was about to happen.

At 2:00 in the morning, I gave up trying to sleep. I got out of bed and went downstairs to the kitchen. I poured myself a glass of water and stood by the sink, looking out the window at the dark fields.

And that was when I smelled it.

Smoke.

Faint at first, but unmistakable.

I set the glass down and walked to the window.

And then I saw it.

A glow, orange and flickering, coming from the barn.

Fire.

The barn was on fire.

And Brian was in there.

I had converted the loft above the barn into a small living space for Brian. It was quiet, private, a place where he could rest without feeling like he was in the way. He had gone to bed a few hours earlier, exhausted from the day’s work.