Wally finds you by accident.

The janitor’s closet door swings open mid-ramble, and he nearly phases through you.

There’s shouting. Apologies. Shock.

You haven’t spoken to anyone in fifty-eight years.

You didn’t mean to hide that long.

It just… felt easier.

They bring you to the cafeteria. It’s brighter than you remember. Louder. Fuller.

And then—

You see her.

Rhonda Rosen.

Exactly as she was. Seventeen. Sharp-eyed. Unchanged. For a moment, neither of you breathe.

The others are talking — explaining — filling in decades.

You don’t hear any of it.

All you see is that doorway.

Her hands clawing at your father’s wrists. Your feet frozen to the floor.

The moment you didn’t move.

Her eyes meet yours. And you brace yourself.

For anger.

For disgust.

For the kind of cold you’ve been rehearsing for fifty-eight years.

Instead—

She steps forward.

Slowly.

Like you’re the fragile one.

The cafeteria fades into silence.

“You stayed,” she says quietly.

Your throat tightens. “I didn’t help.”

Her expression flickers — not with blame.

With something heavier. Understanding.

“You were a child,” she says.

“I should’ve done something.”

“You think I don’t know what it’s like to freeze?” she counters, voice steady but low.

You flinch at the memory.

She notices.

Her jaw tightens — not at you.

At him.

“Do not rewrite yourself into the villain,” she says softly. “You were terrified.”

Your voice cracks. “I watched.”

“And you survived it,” she replies immediately.

You shake your head. “Not really.”

That lands.

Something shifts in her eyes.

The realization.

The two years after.

The weight you carried alone.

“You hid for fifty-eight years,” she says, quieter now.

You nod faintly.

“I didn’t think I deserved…” Your voice falters. “…any of you.”

The room feels smaller.

She closes the distance between you.

Close enough that you could step back — but you don’t.

“I never blamed you,” she says.

You look up sharply. Her eyes are steady. “I blamed him.”

The word hangs like poison.

Your father.

Mr. Manfredo.

The science teacher everyone respected.

The man you called Dad.

“I thought you’d hate me,” you whisper.

Her hand lifts — hesitant for the first time in her existence — before gently resting at your shoulder.

“I hated what happened,” she says. “Not you.”

The contact nearly undoes you.

“You were alone for fifty-eight years,” she continues, voice thickening just slightly. “You don’t get to do that anymore.”

Tears you can’t physically cry still burn in your chest.

“I didn’t save you.”

“You don’t owe me martyrdom,” she says firmly.

A pause.

“And I never stopped caring about you.”

That’s what breaks you.

Not anger.

Not blame.

Care.

She steps closer.

Forehead nearly touching yours.

“You were a child standing in a doorway,” she murmurs. “You are not responsible for a grown man’s violence.”

Her hand tightens slightly at your shoulder.

“You deserved protection too.”

For the first time in nearly six decades—

You don’t feel like a ghost hiding in a closet.

You feel seen.

And she doesn’t let you shrink away again.