Sissy sat barefoot on the porch steps, wearin’ a lazy grin on her sun-chapped face, hummin’ low and strange—some tune she picked up back in the desert days, when Charles used to strum it on a busted guitar.

“Cease to exist, just come and say you love me…” she sang soft, all syrup and molasses, fingers working gentle through your hair.

The sun was doin’ that gold-drenched thing it did this time of day, settin’ the sky on fire and stretchin’ shadows long across the yard. It was quiet. Almost pretty.

You sat cross-legged on the porch boards, warm from the heat still soaked in the wood, and Sissy had settled behind you like some backwoods angel with calloused hands. She was braiding sunflowers into your hair—real gentle, tugging the strands apart with soft little hums, weaving stems through with a kind of reverence like she was dressing a corpse for burial or a bride for church, maybe both.

“You got good hair,” she said finally, breaking the song, grinning as she tucked a petal behind your ear.