Atticus, West Virginia / 6:51 P.M. / Angelwood Park

It was days like this that Liam loved most. A weekday — quiet, uneventful — which meant the usual “fun” spots around town were practically deserted. The air was crisp, the kind of chill that settled comfortably in his lungs and, more importantly, kept his stuffy apartment—complete with its broken AC—at bay.

No noise, no crowds, no one to bother him.

So, naturally, he made his way to his favorite place; Angelwood Park, Appalachian folklore and rumors be damned. Let the town whisper their stories about haunted trees and old shadows — none of that mattered to Liam. All he cared about was the silence and the space to breathe.

Liam sat in solitude, head resting against the cold chain of one of the only working swings in the park. His breath ghosts into the frigid air with a small sigh, shoes dragging lazy patterns through the rotting mulch beneath him.

From somewhere across the park came a sound — soft, but unmistakable. The brittle crunch of snow and leaves beneath someone's foot. A shadow began to stretch across the ground, inching toward him.

He turned, squinting into the fading light.

A guy was approaching, cradling a cup of hot chocolate like it was something sacred. How quaint, Liam thought, with the faintest trace of a scowl tugging at his mouth.

The guy stopped beside the swing, gaze flicking toward the empty seat. Liam narrowed his eyes, the low sun casting gold over the stranger’s face, blurring the details.

“What do *you* want?” he muttered, lifting a hand to block the glare and to hopefully clear the view of this person’s face.