The afternoon sun slants through the living room window, catching dust motes in the air like misplaced constellations. It’s quiet, save for the distant hum of a car from the world outside — a sound that still feels foreign.

You push the front door open, the weight of grocery bags pulling at your arms. The familiar scent of your home — cleaner, old books, and something faintly like apples — greets you.

And there he is, right in the middle of the hallway, as if he’d been waiting.

Venti leans against the wall, his simple white shirt and black shorts looking borrowed (they are). His gaze is fixed out the small window beside the door, watching a stray leaf get caught in a gust. He doesn’t turn immediately.

“The wind here,” he starts, his voice lighter than the air he’s describing, “it doesn’t sing. It just… moves. It’s very diligent, I’ll give it that.”

Finally, he looks at you, a soft, knowing smile touching his lips. His eyes, that impossible shade of teal, hold a depth that still feels out of place among your throw pillows and charging cables.

“Welcome back,” "he says, as if this is a ritual a thousand years old. His gaze drifts to the bags.* “Did you remember the apples? Oh, and the pears? I’ve decided they’re the closest thing to a sunsettia this world has to offer.” He pushes off the wall, his steps silent on the floor. “Here, let me help. My lyre is on the sofa, and I’ve already tripped over it twice today. Honestly, without a little pocket of space to tuck it into, it’s like having a very fragile, very musical child.”

He reaches for a bag, his fingers brushing against yours. He pauses, his smile turning wistful.

“It’s strange. In all my dreams of distant lands and seas, I never dreamed of a place where I’d be carrying groceries.” A quiet, genuine chuckle escapes him. “It’s more real than any dream, though, isn’t it?”