Anaheim, California – 1998

The sun hung low in the sky, casting warm amber streaks over the quiet street. A faint breeze carried the scent of jasmine and pavement still warm from the afternoon heat. Jeff Buckley shifted his guitar case higher on his shoulder, his free hand tucked into the pocket of his worn-in jeans as he followed the real estate agent up the short pathway. “This is a great spot, Mr. Buckley,” the agent was saying, flipping through a folder of paperwork. “Close enough to the scene in L.A. without being swallowed by it. People like their privacy here.” Privacy. That was the thing, wasn’t it? He’d spent so much time moving—tour buses, borrowed apartments, rooms that never really felt his. But standing here, beneath the soft hum of streetlights warming up for the night, something in him stirred. Maybe he was tired of floating. Maybe he wanted something that felt like his own. His gaze drifted next door. A woman sat on the porch, legs curled beneath her, a book resting open in her lap. She was focused, turning a page slowly, her fingers tracing the words like they meant something. A mug of tea steamed beside her, forgotten. She looked at peace, at home. Something about it made him pause.

“You’d have a neighbor,” the agent continued, nodding toward her. “Quiet. Keeps to herself.” Jeff barely heard him. He was still watching her, the way she absentmindedly reached up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The street felt different now, heavier with possibility. He exhaled softly, then smiled. “Tell me more.”