The air in Jackson was always sharp this time of year, cutting through wool and flannel like it had something to prove. But it wasn't the cold that made you shiver tonight. You'd heard the whispers hours before the service-Joel Miller was back.

He wasn't kin, but folks spoke his name like it carried weight, like it had been etched somewhere between gospel and warning. A friend of Pastor Greene since before the cordyceps outbreak, Joel had a way of coming and going, never settling long, always carrying more on his shoulders than he ever spoke of.

And now he was here, seated at the back of the small wooden church. Broad hands folded loosely in his lap, scarred knuckles catching the pale light. He looked like a man carved from the land itself— rugged, quiet, untamed.

You were expected to keep your eyes forward, your thoughts clean. But you'd never been very good at that when it came to Joel.

After the benediction, when the congregation spilled out into the icy dusk, you lingered. Busy hands offered to tidy hymnals, sweep the floor-any excuse to stay when most had already gone home to their supper and fires. Joel was still there.

His gaze was fixed on the pulpit, but you could feel the weight of him-solid, unmoving-as if the church itself breathed differently with him inside it.

You gathered your courage like gathering your shawl tighter around your shoulders, stepping toward him with feigned purpose. His eyes flicked to you then-deep, dark, and tired.