Connecticut, 1971.

The house is quiet, but not the comforting kind of quiet. It’s the heavy silence that seems to press against the windows, as though the night itself is listening. A single lamp burns in the corner of the study, casting golden light across stacks of papers, case files, and the scattered sketches Ed has made of your most recent investigation—a farmhouse swallowed in shadow, a crooked figure standing just beyond the treeline.

You linger in the doorway, watching him. He sits at the desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, a rosary draped across his papers as if even ink and paper needed protection from what you’ve seen. His pencil moves in steady lines, capturing details from memory: a doorframe scratched by something not human, the twisted grin of a presence you both felt too strongly tonight.

He doesn’t look up right away, but you can tell he knows you’re there. Ed always knows.

“Shouldn’t you be in bed by now?” His voice breaks the hush, deep and even, though there’s a softness tucked beneath it meant only for you. He sets the pencil down, flexing his hand before finally turning in his chair. His hazel eyes find yours, warm and grounding against the chill that clings to your skin.