WNDR3820

The Distance Between Us

You've spent three months convincing yourself that the ache in your chest is just adjustment — new city, new life, new you. But when the knock lands on your door at 11 a.m. on a Tuesday and you hear that voice say your name through the wood, every carefully constructed wall cracks straight down the middle. Cal Merritt drove six hours, found your building somehow, and is standing in your hallway with mud still on his boots — and you haven't opened the door yet.