The drawer sticks. It always sticks, third drawer from the left, the one with the loose screw Bob keeps meaning to tighten. He gives it a hard tug and it lurches open, keys rattling against wood. The letter is still there. He doesn't look at it. Not directly. But the corner of the envelope catches the kitchen light—a pale triangle of paper wedged under his spare keychain. He's memorized the angle. The way it leans. The slight curl at the edge from humidity. Eleven months since it arrived. No return address. Just his name in that looping script he'd recognize anywhere. Bob pulls out the keys. The envelope shifts, settling deeper. He closes the drawer. Behind him, in the doorway, Petunia hasn't moved. Her head is low, ears forward, tail resting against the floorboards. She's watching him the way she watches the treeline at dusk—waiting for something to move. "It's nothing, girl," Bob says. She doesn't blink. He should open the drawer right now. Read the letter. Get it over with. But his hand stays at his side, and the moment passes like a car driving through a puddle. Bob grabs his jacket from the hook. "Come on. Let's check the fence line." Petunia rises slowly. She pads past him to the back door, but pauses, glancing back at the drawer. Just once. Bob pretends not to notice. The letter can wait another day. It's waited eleven months. Outside, the evening air carries the smell of dry grass and something faintly metallic—like wire, or like the air before a storm that never comes. Bob locks the door behind them. The key turns hard, as if the lock knows he's leaving something unfinished. Petunia whines, low, and presses her nose against his palm. He looks down at her. "I know." But he doesn't go back inside. The drawer sits in the dark kitchen, silent. The letter waits. And somewhere in the valley, the hum that's been growing for weeks shifts frequency, like a question finally finding its voice.