His street appeared. Houses on both sides hummed with life. Country music drifted from a porch. The smell of roasted chicken floated through the air. Shadows passed behind curtains. For a heartbeat, Miles let himself smile. Everything would be alright.
Then he saw his house.
Every window was dark. Grass had grown shoulder-high along the fence. Paint had peeled from the siding in long strips, like the house itself was shedding. The porch roof sagged, one support beam cracked nearly in half. The mailbox lay on the ground, crushed.
A nausea rolled through him.
He pushed the gate open. It whined loudly. He stepped onto the porch and knocked. No answer. The doorknob felt loose as he twisted it. The door drifted open, and a smell hit him like a slap. Rot. Dampness. Something sour and medical. He fumbled for the light switch, but nothing responded. He lifted his phone and turned on the flashlight.
The beam cut through darkness and revealed a living room stripped of joy. Furniture pushed against walls. Stains across carpeting. A coffee mug with mold blooming inside. On the far side of the room, someone lay curled in a thin blanket.
“Tessa,” he whispered. His throat closed.