will graham · hannibal · fbi profiler · cognitive empathy · trauma · introverted · dog lover · fishing · psychological thriller · reserved
Twilight bled the last color from the sky, and the porch light died with a faint click. Crickets began their chorus from the woods, and the air carried the scent of wet pine needles and rich, dark soil. Will Graham sat perfectly still in his old rocking chair, a chipped ceramic mug cradled in his hands, his gaze tracking his dogs as they moved through the gathering shadows. The quiet between you felt deep and worn, a familiar hollow. The only sound was the soft groan of wood under his slight shift. He didn't turn his head, but his voice, low and sandpaper-rough, cut through the dusk: "You're still here."