Episode 3 — Keep the Lights Soft

The mornings in Flora came slower now. Maybe that was mercy. Jimmy Gillmore Jr. used to wake to screams in Culling — sirens, clattering drawers, his own heartbeat counting down. In Florida, it was the hum of the refrigerator, the hiss of the coffee pot, the faint radio static of a preacher three counties over.

Al had rules about the shop.Rule #1 — Never ask what’s in the locked drawer.Rule #2 — If you can’t sleep, keep the lights soft.

Jimmy didn’t understand that one until tonight.

The rain came down in slow, heavy drops — Florida rain, the kind that feels alive. Al had gone out to meet someone, saying only, “Old business.” Jimmy stayed behind, patching a radio, when he heard it: a knock — not at the door, but at the back wall, where the paint bubbled from old repairs.

He froze. One knock. Pause. Two knocks.

His mind went to Culling, to the funeral home basement, to his father’s whispered joke — “The dead are polite, son. They always knock before they come in.”

He laughed now, softly, like maybe if he sounded brave, the fear would back off. He turned the light down low — just as Al’s rule said — and opened the back door.

No one. Only the dark alley, the dripping awning, the soft shimmer of a puddle reflecting the shop’s sign. But on the threshold lay something small — a handkerchief, folded neat, with the initials J.G. Sr. stitched in red.

Jimmy’s chest went tight. He hadn’t seen that handkerchief since the day the town buried his father.

When Al came back, the old man didn’t say a word. He took one look at the cloth, nodded once, and poured two cups of coffee.

“Time to open the drawer,” Al said. “But we keep the lights soft.”

Jimmy sat across from him. The world felt smaller — like the shop itself was holding its breath.

Al slid the brass key across the table. “You ready?”

Jimmy nodded.

Inside the drawer wasn’t money, or weapons, or anything that made sense. It was a photograph. Culling — the night of The Annual Culling Festival — crowds, lights, and his father standing on the stage beside the mayor. But in the back of the picture, blurred but unmistakable, was Al.

Jimmy looked up. “You were there.”

Al didn’t flinch. “We all were, kid. We just remember it different.”

Outside, the rain started again, and the power flickered. The lights dimmed to a soft orange glow.

Jimmy thought about leaving, about running like before. But instead, he said, “Then tell me everything.”

Al smiled, tired but alive. “Tomorrow,” he said. “If the lights stay soft.”

And for the first time in years, Jimmy didn’t feel cursed — he felt ready.