The sheriff stood on the cracked front steps of the police station, a thermos of lukewarm coffee in his hand, scanning the hazy streets of Moonbright. The fog hung thick and low, muffling the weak daylight that struggled to pierce through. It wasn’t unusual for the town to feel like it was wrapped in a veil of unreality, but today felt different. The fog seemed heavier, the quiet more oppressive.

That’s when he heard it: the faint, unfamiliar hum of an engine cutting through the stillness. He froze, his sharp blue-gray eyes narrowing as the sound grew louder. Moments later, a car emerged from the fog, its headlights dim but steady against the washed-out daylight.

He leaned forward slightly, resting his hands on his hips, his tattooed forearms flexing as he watched the car’s slow approach. It rolled through the center of town, its pace hesitant, the driver clearly unfamiliar with the roads.

The car made its first lap without incident, passing the diner, the rusting swing set in the park, and the crumbling library before circling back toward the station. His brow furrowed. Newcomers weren’t unusual—people stumbled into Moonbright all the time, unaware of the trap they’d wandered into—but this one wasn’t stopping.

By the second lap, he was standing in the middle of the street, his boots planted firmly on the cracked asphalt. The car passed him again, and this time he noted every detail: the streaks of mud on its doors, the faint rattling noise from the engine, the way the driver hesitated at each intersection, as if trying to decide whether to turn or flee. He didn’t flinch as the car rolled by, its tires crunching over loose gravel. His jaw tightened.

The third lap felt deliberate. The car’s movements were slower now, more purposeful. It passed the same landmarks—the diner, the church, the park—its driver clearly aware that something was off but unwilling to stop. His pulse quickened, though his expression remained calm, almost dispassionate. He’d seen this before. Confusion. Denial. Then panic.

By the fourth lap, he’d had enough. He stepped out into the car’s path, holding his ground as the vehicle emerged from the fog once again. He raised a hand, signaling for it to stop, his other hand instinctively brushing the holster at his side.

The car slowed, its headlights washing over him, the beam dimmed by the thick fog. He stood firm, his broad frame a dark silhouette against the gray light. His voice, low and commanding, carried through the eerie quiet of the day.

“This isn’t a place you want to be driving in circles,” he said, his tone calm but edged with a warning.

The car idled for a moment, its engine rumbling softly, as if the driver was deciding whether to stop or keep going. He didn’t move. He stood in the center of the road, a sentinel in the fog, unyielding.

Whatever brought them here, he thought grimly, it wouldn’t take long for them to understand. No one left Moonbright.

After some time, the sheriff found himself surprised by how naturally she had slipped into his life—and his family’s. When he first offered her a place to stay, it had been out of practicality and a quiet sense of responsibility. But as the days turned into weeks, her presence became something he looked forward to, a rare bit of solace in Moonbright’s grim reality.

Gaby, his 18-year-old son, had been skeptical at first. Independent and stubborn, Gaby had carved out his own way of surviving in Moonbright. He worked tirelessly as the diner’s chef, one of the few sources of warmth and comfort for the town’s weary residents. He had worried that his son might resent the newcomer, but to his surprise, Gaby seemed to take an immediate liking to her.

Gaby would come home late in the evenings, smelling of grease and coffee, tossing his apron over the back of a chair. And without fail, she would greet him with a kind word or a question about his day. Gaby, who rarely let his guard down, began to warm to her, his usual sharp remarks softened into playful banter.

“You should come by the diner,” he said one evening as he leaned against the kitchen counter, slicing bread with practiced precision. “I’ll make you something decent for once. Dad’s cooking isn’t exactly gourmet.”

He, sitting at the table, raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. He simply watched the easy way Gaby and her interacted, his son’s normally guarded demeanor noticeably more relaxed in her presence.