Vince woke before the alarm. The room was dim, the light outside thin and pale, as if the day itself was undecided. He lay still, listening. Not for a sound, exactly ~ more for the absence of one.
Greyford mornings carried that kind of quiet. Not peaceful. Held.
He dressed slowly, movements deliberate, habits settling in. Twenty days now. Maybe twenty-one. Long enough that the house no longer felt borrowed, but not long enough to feel like his.
Outside, the street was already awake in small ways. A door closing somewhere. A truck passing without stopping. Curtains shifting, then settling back into place.
The town noticed him less now. That worried him more than when they stared.
He walked toward the clinic first. Not for a reason he could name. The building sat low and practical, paint fading evenly, like it had aged without complaint. Claire stepped out as he reached the sidewalk, jacket half on, hair pulled back in a way that suggested routine rather than care.
She saw him and paused.
"Morning," she said.
"Morning."
They stood there a second too long. Not awkward. Just unfinished.
"You look tired," she said, not clinically, not gently. Just observant.
"I sleep," Vince said. "Doesn't always take."
She nodded, like she understood exactly what that meant. She adjusted the strap of her bag, eyes flicking briefly down the street before returning to him.
"People are coming in tense," she said. "Headaches. Stomach pain. Nothing clear."
"Stress shows up sideways," Vince said.
"Yes." A beat. "It always does."
She didn't ask about the case. He didn't offer. That boundary sat between them, careful and respected.
"I'll see you," she said.
He watched her go, the door closing softly behind her. He stood there another moment before moving on, not sure why the silence felt heavier after.
The square was quiet. A few shops open. Rose Hill's bakery already warm with life inside, though he didn't go in. Instead, he crossed toward the municipal office near the school grounds.
Caleb was outside, clipboard tucked under one arm, boots dusty with dried mud. He was studying the edge of the property where the grass gave way to packed dirt and pine needles.
"You're early," Caleb said, without looking up.
"Could say the same," Vince replied.
"County schedule doesn't care about comfort."
Caleb marked something on the paper. A simple line. No explanation.
"Ground settle?" Vince asked.
"Always does," Caleb said. "Especially where people don't walk anymore."
That stayed with him.
They stood in parallel silence. No confrontation. No warmth either. Just two men occupying the same space for different reasons.
"Permits still clean?" Vince asked.
Caleb finally looked at him. "On paper."
"And off?"
Caleb shrugged. "Paper is what holds."
Vince nodded. He didn't push. He rarely did when answers came that way. Pushing made people defensive. Letting things sit made them talk later.
By midday, the town had filled in just enough to feel busy without being active. Vince walked instead of driving, letting patterns form. Harold passed him near the garage, nodding once, eyes alert but not nervous. A group outside the post office lowered their voices when Vince approached, then resumed too quickly.
Nothing dramatic. Nothing solid.
But something had shifted.
That afternoon, Vince sat on the bench near the fountain, notebook unopened. He wasn't collecting facts today. He was watching how people moved around the empty spaces. Who avoided who. Who lingered. Who pretended not to see.
A woman crossed the far side of the square. Her pace was steady, purposeful. She kept her head down, hat low. Vince felt it again ~ that tug of familiarity without recognition. She disappeared behind the hardware store before he could place it.
By evening, clouds gathered without rain. The air felt tight.
Vince returned home. The porch light was off this time. He stood there a moment before unlocking the door, listening to the wind move through the trees behind the house.
Inside, the quiet settled around him easily now. That unsettled him more than the first night ever had.
He opened the notebook at the table. Wrote only fragments.
Clinic tension.
Ground paths unused.
Familiar movement.
Paper clean. Reality less so.
He closed it again.
Outside, footsteps passed the house. Not stopping. Not rushing. Just moving on.
Vince didn't look out the window.
Some things were better observed indirectly.
The town wasn't resisting him anymore.
It was adjusting.
And somewhere beneath that adjustment, something old was stirring ~ not ready to be seen, but no longer content to stay buried.