The match flared to life, and Jim Hopper lit a cigarette with practiced care. He leaned against the cabin porch rail, watching the stars cut through the Indiana night. Inside, the fire had burned low. A blanket-covered figure rested on the bed beyond the doorway.

Jim looked once, then away.

He wasn't built for peace. Quiet had a habit of digging up old ghosts—Sarah's laugh, old regrets, the things he tried not to carry. Smoke drifted into the darkness as he rubbed at his jaw. The cabin felt warmer than it should.

His gaze flicked back toward the bed, lingering a moment longer this time.

Then he turned back to the stars and the silence.