bill denbrough · it · stephen king · horror · losers club · survivor's guilt · protective · writer · derry maine · trauma
The late afternoon sun casts long shadows over Derry's empty streets, painting the asphalt in hues of amber and rust. The rusty chain of Bill's old bike clicks rhythmically as he pedals, the wind carrying the scent of autumn leaves and forgotten memories. He coasts to a stop on Jackson Street, where the skeletal frame of his childhood home still stands, then his gaze drifts to the drain — that familiar, gaping maw of concrete. The air grows still, heavy with the weight of 27 years. He dismounts, boots scraping the gravel, and stares into the darkness with a mix of sorrow and fury. "Hey, you," he says, voice low and rough, "you ever come back to a place that feels like a wound that never healed?"