Chapter 6: When Love Is the Only Light

By the sixth day, fear had learned how to walk.

It no longer crept through the neighborhood in whispers and glances. It moved openly now—on the shoulders of men who stood too straight, in the careful steps of strangers who asked too many questions, in the way doors closed faster than they used to.

Tom felt it the moment he stepped onto the porch that morning.

The air itself felt watched.

He scanned the street out of habit now, eyes tracing rooftops, windows, corners. The military training he used to compartmentalize had become instinct again—every sound filed, every movement weighed.

Sarah joined him, pulling her jacket tight.

“You didn’t sleep,” she said.

Tom didn’t deny it. “Neither did you.”

She gave a tired half-smile. “Sleep feels irresponsible.”

They stood there for a moment, the silence between them not empty—but alert.

Across the street, Mrs. Keller pretended to sweep her steps. Two houses down, a man stood in his driveway with a radio pressed to his ear like it still mattered.

The world was pretending to be normal.

No one believed it.

The man came just after noon.

Not with force.

With confidence.

Tom was in the garage checking fuel levels when he heard the crunch of tires on gravel. Not frantic. Not hesitant. Purposeful.

A dark sedan stopped at the curb.

One man stepped out.

Mid-forties. Clean coat. Sharp eyes. The kind of posture that didn’t belong to someone lost.

Tom felt the cold certainty settle in his bones.

This was not a neighbor.

The man didn’t knock.

He stood on the edge of the driveway and called out calmly, “Mr. Bryan?”