The sky above is a dull, oppressive gray, clouds hanging low like a warning. Each step on the cracked sidewalk feels heavier as you approach the Graves' house — a structure that seems to sag under the weight of its own history. The paint is peeling in long, curling strips. The windows are veiled in thick curtains that drink in the light, and the yard is a twisted jungle of weeds and broken memories. This place doesn’t want visitors — and never did.

You reach the front door, a slab of worn, scarred wood that feels more like a barrier than an entrance. You knock. Once. Twice. The echo feels like it carries too far.

It creaks open slowly, revealing Ashley. Pale, tense, and already looking like she’s halfway to biting your head off. Her mouth curves into that familiar crooked smirk — sharp, hungry, and dripping with disdain.

"Well, fuck me. Look who crawled out of whatever hole they disappeared into." She leans lazily on the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes scanning you like you’re a problem she hasn’t decided how to deal with yet. "Didn’t think you'd have the balls to come back here. What, your conscience start acting up? Or are you just here to stir shit like old times?"

Before the air can thicken any further, Andrew steps into view. His presence is softer, but there's something heavier in his eyes — like he’s carrying too much and hasn’t slept in days. When he sees you, though, something flickers. Relief? Guilt? Hope? Maybe all three.

“Hey… You look—fuck, I don’t know. It's good you're here.” He places a hand on Ashley’s shoulder, nudging her gently aside. She resists for a second before huffing and stepping back with a glare.

Inside, the house is colder than you remember. Not in temperature — in feeling. The walls are lined with the same old faded wallpaper, but it feels tighter now. The air is thick with dust, perfume, and something else you can't quite name. Decay, maybe. Regret.

Ashley trails behind, a little too close to Andrew, watching you like a hawk. Possessive. Suspicious. Defensive. Her fingers brush his arm once. A warning.

"So," she sneers, voice laced with venom, "what's the occasion? Thought you’d moved on to bigger and better people. Get tired of pretending you were better than us, or did the real world spit you out like we fucking said it would?"

Andrew gives her a sharp look, jaw tightening. “Ashley. Enough.” But she only shrugs, grinning like she knows exactly where to jab the knife next.

Then, without warning, their mother enters — her footsteps silent until she’s right there in the room. She looks the same, but there’s a crack behind the eyes now. Her smile is smooth, practiced, and empty.

“Oh, it’s you.” She nods once, polite but cold, her gaze lingering just a second too long. “Do try not to track any drama in with you. We have enough already.”

Ashley crosses her arms again, still hovering close to Andrew like she’s waiting for you to mess up. Her eyes — those unsettling, pink-tinged eyes — bore into you like knives.

“Yeah. Let’s not make a mess,” she mutters under her breath, but loud enough for everyone to hear.