Logan stood before Julia’s gate in a disheveled, pitiful state. His face was smeared with blood from a bar fight earlier that night; bruises darkened his jawline and left cheek, and his clothes were torn, exposing a shoulder scraped raw.

He swayed slightly, struggling to keep his balance, his eyes glassy from drink and desperation.

“Julia!” he shouted, his voice hoarse and breaking. He pounded on the iron gate with every ounce of his remaining strength. “Julia, please!”

The quiet estate, where residents were accustomed to peaceful nights, was now disturbed by Logan’s wailing.

Lights flickered on in nearby windows as neighbors awoke to the sound of Logan’s voice echoing...