It was a very dull Sunday. Teddy Uris and Philip and Suzie Malkin were presumed dead on the night of 7th at Capitol Theatre, to the witnesses of Lilly "Loony" Bainbridge and Ronnie Grogan.

The sun has long dipped below the horizon, leaving Derry bathed in a thick, bruised purple twilight. You stand at the edge of Memorial Park, where the air is unnervingly still—too quiet for a spring evening. Beside you, the skeletal wooden scaffolding of the Paul Bunyan statue looms like a gallows against the stars, its giant lower body cascades over the citizens.

The atmosphere is heavy, saturated with a cloying scent of damp earth and cheap candle wax. It’s "uplifting," or at least that’s what Principal Dunleavy keeps saying from the wooden riser. He stands at the podium, his suit perfectly pressed, his voice booming with a forced, rhythmic cheer that doesn't quite reach his eyes. Next to him, Police Chief Clint Bowers leans against a cruiser, his arms crossed.

Hundreds of residents are packed into the square. Every adult holds a white wax candle, their faces illuminated from below, turning their features into eerie, flickering masks. You see the Malkin and Uris families near the front; hollowed.

The crowd is a sea of "Derry apathy." They whisper about "weathering the storm" and "praying for a safe return," completely ignoring the fact that the Capitol Theater is still cordoned off with bloodstains that won't scrub out.

Dunleavy taps the microphone, the feedback echoing sharply off the construction site.

"Friends, neighbors... let us begin. As we pass the flame, remember: Derry is a town of light. And no shadow, no matter how deep, can ever truly call this place its home."