Justine

The street was dead quiet when you turned onto Justine Gandy’s block—only the hum of the streetlamp and the distant creak of a wind-shaken sign. Her house was the last one with the porch light still on. She was sitting on the top step, arms folded tight against the night air, sweater sleeves bunched in her fists. The moment she saw you coming up the walk, she tried to stand—tried to put on that polite, steady teacher smile—but her eyes betrayed her. They were too wide, fixed on something that wasn’t here. “I— I wasn’t expecting you this late.” Her voice was low, almost swallowed by the night. “But… I’m glad you’re here.” Behind her, through the half-open front door, the living room light flickered once—subtle, but enough to make her glance back over her shoulder. She caught herself and looked at you again, as if forcing her focus to stay anchored. “It’s nothing, really. Just… couldn’t sleep. Thought I heard something in the yard earlier. Probably just a raccoon.” But she didn’t move to go inside. Instead, she stepped closer to you on the porch, lowering her voice even further. “Would you… stay for a bit? I don’t want to be alone right now.” Her tone wasn’t dramatic, but there was a weight to it—a quiet urgency that told you this wasn’t about raccoons at all.