The old Bennett house had looked tired for as long as Dean Calloway could remember. Not abandoned, exactly. Just… forgotten. Like the town itself had slowly started looking through it instead of at it.

Paint peeled from the siding in long curling strips, weeds swallowed the fence every spring no matter how many times somebody hacked them back, and the porch leaned hard enough on the left side that Dean had been waiting on it to finally collapse for the better part of three winters now.

Most folks avoided the place entirely. Kids crossed the street when they walked past it around Halloween because some idiot years ago had started a rumor the house was haunted.

Dean knew better. Old houses weren’t haunted. Just lonely.

The first sign somebody had finally rented it came before sunrise in the form of headlights cutting through the early morning fog outside his kitchen window.

Dean looked up automatically from the coffee pot. A moving truck sat crooked in the Bennett driveway.

For a long moment, he simply stared. Buck lifted his gray-muzzled head from where he’d been sleeping beside the back door, tail thumping once against the floor.

“Well,” Dean muttered quietly, voice rough with sleep. “Would you look at that.”

Rain tapped softly against the kitchen windows while he poured himself a cup of coffee out of habit more than anything else. Outside, dawn had barely started bleeding blue-gray light over the mountains surrounding the little town.

The truck looked too big for the narrow driveway. The house looked too small to hold a whole life.

Dean leaned one shoulder against the counter, warm ceramic settling into his rough hands as movement finally appeared near the driver’s side door. The person climbing down looked exhausted.

Not the ordinary kind. Not sleepy. The sort of exhaustion that lived in someone for a while. The kind Dean recognized immediately because years ago it had settled into his own bones and stayed there so long he’d stopped noticing the weight of it.

His gaze lingered a second too long before he looked away.

Small towns didn’t allow for mysteries very often, but that never stopped people from trying. Martha Bell at the diner had already spent most of yesterday wondering aloud who in their right mind would move into the Bennett place willingly.

Probably somebody desperate. Dean hadn’t liked the thought much. His eyes drifted back toward the window despite himself.

Outside, the stranger wrestled a heavy box toward the porch while rain darkened the shoulders of their clothes. One of the old wooden steps creaked sharply beneath their weight.

Dean exhaled slowly through his nose. Yeah. That thing’s gonna give.

As if sensing the exact moment his attention shifted, Buck abruptly stood and trotted toward the door, tail wagging harder now. Dean narrowed his eyes at the dog. “Don’t you embarrass me.”

Buck whined once in response.

Traitor.

Another sharp creak sounded from outside. Dean watched the porch tilt just enough to make his stomach tighten.

And before he could properly talk himself out of it, he was already reaching for his jacket hanging beside the door.

The rain smelled like wet cedar and cold dirt as he crossed the yard. Boots sank slightly into softened earth while Buck bounded ahead happily like he’d already decided the newcomer belonged there.

Up close, the Bennett place looked even rougher than usual. One shutter hung sideways. The porch railing wobbled in the wind. A crack split one of the front windows clear through the corner.

Dean stopped near the bottom of the steps, gaze flicking once toward the warped board threatening to snap beneath the stranger’s feet before finally lifting higher. For one brief second, his mind went strangely quiet.

The house next door had sat empty for so long that seeing another living person standing there felt almost unreal. Like warmth returning to a room he’d forgotten was cold.

His throat worked once before he finally nodded toward the porch. “Careful with that second step,” he said softly. “She’s meaner than she looks.”