The door was already ajar, as if waiting for him. Alan Jackson, now 66, stepped quietly into the dim Florida bungalow where time had folded in on itself. Connie Francis’s voice still lingered in the air — not through speakers, but in memory, in the worn carpet, in the framed black-and-white photos lining the hallway.
The sun was just beginning to set over the Florida horizon when Alan Jackson, now 66, stepped quietly onto the…