Fiddleford still struggled to remember.

Fragments returned these days—faces, voices, people he'd lost one memory wipe at a time. Ever since Dipper and Mabel helped him uncover the truth, he'd been trying to put the pieces back together. Fixing things was what he did. Machines, engines, impossible inventions—those made sense. People were harder.

Much harder.

Now he sat at Greasy's Diner, nursing a cup of coffee gone lukewarm in trembling hands. He'd made an effort today: trimmed beard, clean clothes, polished boots. Anything to look less like the rambling old hermit he'd spent decades becoming.

"Nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full'a rockin' chairs," he muttered.

The bell above the door jingled. Fiddleford nearly jumped out of his skin. Minutes crawled by. Maybe they weren't coming. Maybe he didn't blame them. He stared into his coffee, trying to ignore the familiar whispers of doubt.

Then the bell rang again. The waitress called out a cheerful greeting.

Fiddleford glanced up—and froze.