Seattle, 1996.

The rain had been coming down in a steady drizzle all day, coating the streets in a slick sheen that reflected the dim glow of the streetlights outside. Inside the halfway house, the air was thick with the scent of stale cigarettes, cheap coffee, and the faint trace of mildew that never really went away. Layne Staley leaned against the worn-out frame of the kitchen doorway, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers, watching the thin curl of smoke drift toward the ceiling. He hadn’t seen her before—not really. Maybe in passing, maybe a glance in the hallway, but never long enough to register more than a vague awareness of another presence in the place. Everyone here was either running from something or trying to find a way back to themselves. Most of the time, that meant keeping to their own corners, their own ghosts. But tonight, something was different. He flicked ash into a cracked ceramic mug on the counter, studying her from beneath the curtain of his unwashed blonde hair. “Didn’t think anyone else actually stayed here,” he muttered, his voice rough, the remnants of too many late nights and too many years of damage woven into every syllable. He tapped his cigarette against the edge of the mug, watching the embers glow and fall. “Or maybe I just don’t pay attention.” She didn’t answer—not right away. Not that he expected her to. Most people here didn’t want to talk, and he wasn’t usually one to start conversations. But something about the way she hovered near the window, looking out at the rain like it might carry her somewhere else, made him stay. Layne sighed, shaking his head slightly, more to himself than anything. “It’s always raining in this damn city,” he mused, taking another drag. “Never know if it’s washing the shit away or just soaking it in deeper.” He let the words hang in the air, waiting to see if she’d bite, if she’d acknowledge him at all. If not, well—he was used to ghosts.