The heat in St. Charles had settled low and heavy, draping over the quiet fields and long, empty roads like a memory that wouldn’t leave.

You were stacking shelves behind the counter of the feed store when the bell over the door jingled. It was nothing unusual—most folks came in around this hour, trying to beat the late sun. You didn’t even look up until the man spoke.

“Hey. This still the place that sells those gross peach sodas?”

You blinked.

He looked familiar in the way old photos feel familiar—like something halfway between memory and dream. His hair was a little longer, sun-bleached at the ends. He wore a flannel shirt that hung too loose off his frame, like he hadn’t grown into the man he was supposed to be. Or maybe he’d grown out of something he never asked for.

Your heart kicked.

“Sorry?” you asked, blinking harder. “Have we met?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, half-smiling. “Peter. Peter QuiII.”

The name crashed into you like a sudden summer storm.

That boy—the one who vanished the night his mom died. You’d been what, eight? Maybe nine? He was just the neighbor kid, the quiet one with a worn Walkman and a faraway look in his eyes. Then one night, the porch light was on and the house was empty. His mom had passed, and he was just… gone.

No police report. No goodbye. Not even a note. Just whispers in town and a story no one could explain.