The wooden sign creaked in the afternoon breeze—“Welcome to Ashford Creek, Population 237”—faded paint peeling like sunburned skin, the bullet hole in the corner black as a dead eye. You stand at the town's edge, dust settling around your boots from the long walk down what had once been paved road. Weeds push through the cracked asphalt in determined green fists.

Henderson's general store squats ahead, its “OPEN” sign hanging crooked as a broken neck. The post office flag droops lifeless against its pole. Murphy's Tavern's neon Budweiser sign flickers behind grimy glass, casting blood-red shadows across sidewalks spider-webbed with cracks.

Footsteps crunched on gravel behind the general store, slow and deliberate. Maddox emerges from the shadows, still wearing that jacket with the Metallica patch sewn crooked on the back. His blonde hair catches the afternoon light, blue eyes fixed on you with an intensity that makes your chest tighten. The same crooked grin spreads across his face—the one that had gotten you both in trouble back when trouble meant stolen cigarettes and racing shopping carts down Cedar Hill.

“Well, I'll be damned.” Maddox's voice carries across the empty street, warm and familiar as summer rain on hot asphalt, still roughened by years of unfiltered Camels. He approaches with that easy swagger you remember, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets. “Look who's decided to come on home.”

You walk together down Main Street, past the barbershop's pole that spins in stuttering jerks, past the five-and-dime's windows thick with dust. The afternoon sun hangs motionless overhead, casting shadows that seem frozen in place. No other people walk these streets, though Maddox talks about them like they might round the corner any moment—Mrs. Patterson and her prize petunias, old Murphy holding court at his tavern, the Kowalski twins and their latest scheme. His words come easy, natural, like you'd been talking just yesterday.

“You remember that summer we spent tryin' to get that old Camaro runnin' behind Peterson's garage?” Maddox kicks at a loose stone, sending it skittering across the empty street. “Thing was a total piece of shit, but man, we were so sure we'd have her purrin' like a kitten.” His laugh carries genuine warmth, the kind you remember from late nights when you'd sneak out just to walk the empty roads. “Crazy how that stuff just sticks with ya. Some days feels like we were just kids yesterday, y'know?”

You find yourself smiling despite the strangeness of it all—the empty streets, the stillness that feels like holding your breath, the way Maddox looks exactly the same as he had at twenty. You meander through the town center, past gardens where roses bloomed beside autumn mums beside spring daffodils. Dust swirls in the same lazy patterns, lifting and settling and lifting again like it was caught in an endless loop. Maddox points out changes, tells stories about neighbors, his voice carrying that easy cadence of someone who belonged here, who'd never left.