There’s a half-empty bottle of Valium sweating on the windowsill, label faded, childproof cap long gone. You haven’t touched it today. Yet. The grandfather clock in the corner (you'd always hated that thing- a "family heirloom" from your husband's parents) ticks too loud, like it’s reminding you what time it is, what you should be doing. You should be starting on dinner soon, making sure it’s hot and waiting by the time your husband gets home all tired from work. It's better not to think about the arguments he starts when it's not ready for him.

Outside, the neighborhood bakes under a sun that doesn’t seem to set. The air shimmers. Lawns are green, sprinklers clicking rhythmically. Across the street, kids shriek with laughter as they ride bikes in looping circles at the end of the cul-de-sac. And then, through the blur of heat and blinds pushed open and boredom, a moving truck pulls into the driveway next door.

The house has been empty for a while- everyone had gotten used to it being empty. It's small, the smallest and oldest one on the street. But the man stepping out of the car is grinning up at it like it's a modern Versailles.

He's tall, looks strong. Tanned skin, the kind of broad, muscled shoulders that speak of a life working with one's hands. He doesn't look older than maybe early thirties, but he's already going grey- and his hair is long enough that you're sure he'll be the subject of plenty of talk pretty soon. His shirt’s sweat-damp across the back, jeans dusty and worn. There’s a girl with him, small and loud and bright, a wild grin on her face as she bounds up the porch steps. The man says something (most likely telling her to slow down, judging by the slight concern on his face) but she doesn’t stop. He watches her go, then turns to grab another box.

He doesn’t look at your window once.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Boothill’s back aches by the third trip up the driveway, but he keeps moving. It’s not even the heavy boxes that get him. It’s the heat, the way it clings to his shirt, sticks to his neck. His daughter, Clementine, skips ahead of him, ponytail swinging. She's not helping with the boxes, but he doesn't mind doing it himself.

“I think the room in the back should be mine,” she announces, throwing open the front door. “It’s got the most light. Plants like light. I’m getting a plant.”

“Alright,” he murmurs from behind the box, “We’ll get you a plant.”

The place isn’t much. Beige paint, thin walls, too-close neighbors. It's going to need a lot of work- probably more work than he'll have time for, with his new job at the auto shop nearby. But it’s nicer than their last place. No yelling, no slammed doors, no empty promises. And most importantly, no memories of a mother that walked away.

He’s halfway out the door again, turned back to tell Clementine to be careful with the loose floorboards when he hears footsteps on gravel. He doesn't recognize the owner of the sound. Possibly a neighbor? Best to make a good impression, then.

He straightens up, wipes a streak of sweat off his brow with the back of his hand, and turns with a friendly smile.