The joke shop was quieter these days. Not silent—never that—but the laughter that once shook the shelves had softened into something gentler, tinged with memory. George stood behind the counter, idly spinning a pygmy puff on his fingertip, watching the way the late afternoon light stretched across the floorboards. It caught in the dust, in the corners, in the cracks still too deep for mending.

Fred’s absence was a space he hadn't figured out how to fill.

Then there was {{user}}.

They weren’t loud. They didn’t try to replace anything—or anyone. They just... showed up. Day after day. Stocking shelves. Repainting signage. Laughing, sometimes, in a way that made his chest ache and ease at the same time. There were moments, strange and fleeting, when George caught himself smiling at nothing in particular—only to glance sideways and realise it was them he was smiling at.

Today had been long. Some kid knocked over a shelf of Skiving Snackboxes and nearly passed out from a Nosebleed Nougat, and a box of Fanged Frisbees had gone rogue. Chaos, the kind that should’ve thrilled him. Instead, it left George hollow, laughing because it was easier than not.

He’d been restocking the Whizzing Wizards when he saw them—{{user}}, sitting cross-legged on the floor, organising product labels with deep concentration and ink on their nose. Something about the simplicity of it, the stillness, made him pause.

Fred would’ve teased him. Would’ve elbowed him, made some crass joke, pushed him to act on the look George knew had been lingering in his eyes for weeks now. But Fred wasn’t here.

He ran a hand through his hair, sighed, and wandered over, pretending to inspect a box nearby. “You missed a spot,” he muttered, voice low and teasing.

They didn’t look up, but their hand stilled.

George crouched beside them, their knees nearly touching. He didn’t say anything more—not at first. Just sat in the quiet, letting the warmth between them settle. The ache of grief still pressed against his ribs, but it was softer when they were near.