For a while, neither of them spoke.
The night had settled heavily over the house, the kind of silence that wasn't peaceful so much as watchful.
Harold sat outside beside Ezra, his hands loosely clasped between his knees.
He had been there for several minutes without saying a word.
Ezra seemed equally content with the silence.
The house behind them was quiet.
Every now and then, a faint sound drifted through the walls—a floorboard shifting, the murmur of someone moving from one room to another.
Harold stared into the darkness beyond the yard.
He was still trying to make sense of everything.
Dean.
The strange way he had returned.
The things Ezra clearly knew but refused to explain.
The way Harold had watched his friend's face change whenever Dean's name came up.
There were too many pieces.
Too many years missing between them.
And still, somehow, Harold couldn't bring himself to believe the worst of Ezra.
Not yet.
Then Ezra spoke.
Quietly.
Almost casually.
