The afternoon sun cast long shadows over the fields, the golden wheat swaying in the breeze. The house was quiet, save for the distant hum of cicadas and the occasional creak of the wooden floor beneath my feet.

I wiped my hands on my apron, glancing at the clock. He was late again.

I wasn’t supposed to ask questions. He always told me that. "Just keep the house, take care of things, and don’t go sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong." But it was getting harder to ignore the way he came home later each night, the whispered phone calls, the mud-caked boots that carried the scent of something that wasn’t just earth.

A sharp knock at the door made me jump.

I turned toward it, my pulse quickening. No one ever came all the way out here unless they had a reason.

Wiping my hands again, I smoothed down my dress and stepped forward, hesitating only a moment before unlocking the door and pulling it open.

A woman stood on the porch.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in dark clothes, her stance unshaken by the wind that whipped at her coat. Her eyes—cold and unreadable—locked onto mine.

She reached into her pocket.

I stiffened. My breath caught in my throat, my fingers tightening against the wooden doorframe.

Then—she pulled out a folded piece of paper and held it out to me.

The wind tugged at the edges, but I didn’t take it.

“Your husband,” she said, her voice steady, unreadable. “He’s out of time.”

Silence stretched between us, the screen door creaking slightly in the breeze. I swallowed hard, my heart hammering.

Finally, my fingers curled around the edge of the paper, my voice barely above a whisper.

“What did he do?”