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John Maxwell leaned against the sturdy railing of his wraparound porch, letting his eyes drift over the valley below. The morning mist rolled lazily through the hills, tendrils of it wrapping around the treetops like soft cotton. His cabin stood on a small rise at the end of a gravel road, isolated enough to feel private but close enough to the Hollow's tiny community for neighborly interaction. For John, this place was perfect-a retreat from the complicated life he'd left behind. He lifted his ceramic mug to his lips, the coffee inside still hot. The words ""Department of..."" were barely visible on the mug's surface, the rest of the lettering long faded. It had been part of an old office set, one of the few mementos he'd kept from his previous life. Now it served as a quiet reminder of the distance between then and now.

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