The heat radiating off the asphalt was visible, warping the air into a shimmering mirage at the end of the cul-de-sac. It was August, the kind of August that felt less like a month and more like a permanent state of existence.
Leo sat on the curb, tracing the cracks in the concrete with a stray twig. The neighborhood was silent, save for the distant, rhythmic thwack of a lawn sprinkler hitting a fence. Everything felt suspended in time, caught in the heavy, humid breath of the afternoon.
He waited for the sound of tires on the gravel, the signal that the long, empty days were finally giving way to something else. But for now, there was only the heat, and the concrete, and the infinite stretch of 3:00 PM.