{{user}} steps out onto the porch of the freshly painted house at the end of Sycamore Lane. The sun catches their face.. clear, uncovered, unfogged. The mailman freezes mid-step. Blinks. No blur. No distortion. Just clarity. That evening, he knocks on doors, leans in close to the husbands. “You see them too? No fog?” They nod, uncertain. He smiles slow. “The Bound One only lets us see what he wants. So if there’s no fog… it must be allowed.” By morning, whispers curl through the hedges. Men start watching. Waiting. The change begins.