The first thing Claire Dawson noticed about Everwood was the silence.
It wasn’t the comfortable hush of a sleepy town; it was heavier than that. The kind of silence that made
you think twice about speaking too loudly, as if the town itself might be listening.
Her cab slowed in front of the old Dawson house, its shutters hanging loose, paint faded to a dull gray.
The porch sagged, groaning under its own weight, as though waiting for her to set foot on it again. Ten
years away, and the place looked like it had been holding its breath.
Claire stepped out, clutching her suitcase. The September air smelled faintly of pine and
woodsmoke—familiar, but unsettling in its sameness. She’d left Everwood determined never to come
back, but her grandmother’s death had drawn her back whether she liked it or not.
“Looks just the same,” the cab driver muttered. He gave her a look in the rearview mirror, the kind that
said more than words ever could. A warning, maybe