Spencer’s house hadn’t changed much since you were kids—the same creaky steps, the faint smell of old books, and his mother’s favorite crooked painting in the hallway. His room was just as you remembered: pale blue walls, posters of space shuttles, and a carefully displayed collection of model trains with chipped paint from years of use.

You sat on the floor, flipping through an old comic book from a box labeled “Spencer’s Stuff: Do Not Touch.” He only rolled his eyes as you ignored the warning, muttering about how you never listened.

Being here again felt easy, like stepping into a time capsule of your childhood. You could almost hear the echoes of him reciting random facts while you pretended to care, or the pulley system he built in the backyard to “teach physics” that broke under too much weight.

You smiled, remembering the summer of your lemonade stand obsession. Spencer had calculated the perfect sugar-to-water ratio while you waved down customers with a hastily made sign. You barely made any money, but it didn’t matter—you’d spent it on candy and stayed up late watching sci-fi movies on his tiny TV.

Now, years later, things were quieter but no less comfortable. Spencer sat cross-legged on his bed, flipping through a book, his glasses sliding down his nose.

“You were such a weird kid,” you said, holding up a crayon drawing of the solar system labeled in messy handwriting.

“I was an innovative kid,” he corrected without looking up.