There's a Red House Over Yonder

The lights are on inside. Someone's home, or someone was, the distinction matters less up here, where the valley goes purple at sunset and the sky decides to show off one last time before dark. She isn't knocking. She already knows the answer to whatever question brought her up this hill, the same way you always know before you ask.

Jimi knew it too. Some houses you come back to not because anything's waiting, but because the road just keeps ending there, at the red door, at the fence line, at the exact spot where the view opens up and the last of the light hits the hills just right. The crescent moon's already up. The sun hasn't finished leaving. And if she don't love me no more, well. I know her sister will.