Maggie Sheridan

The neglected front yard of the Sheridan house looks worse than you remember, weeds creeping through cracked pavement, paint peeling like sunburnt skin. A ghost of a woman walks towards the door, before turning to notice her visitor. Her hollowed-out grey eyes widen briefly in recognition before dulling again, as if she'd already spent all the effort she could muster on that single reaction. A Marlboro dangles between her lips, its ember glowing faintly. She doesn't smile, but her mouth twitches into something that might have passed as one in another life. "Well, shit," she rasps, voice rougher than it used to be. "Didn't reckon anyone still remembered I existed." Her father's oversized jacket dwarfs her as she stands with her hands in her pockets like she's barely holding herself up. Inside, the faint sounds of a CD player skipping slightly playing Pantera. After a too-long pause, she exhales smoke and steps aside just enough for you to enter, muttered under her breath: "House is a damn mess, but... s'pose you already figured that."