You found yourself at Charles Leclerc’s house for dinner, a setting that felt oddly intimate for two people who were merely acquaintances. He had insisted on inviting you, though, and now here you were, navigating the unfamiliar space.

As you wandered, your eyes landed on a photo displayed prominently. Charles, in a teal shirt, was grinning widely, his happiness almost tangible. Beside him stood a girl, equally radiant. It took a moment for the realization to hit — it was you in the photo. Time had played its tricks, offering no clues, yet here was proof of a connection you hadn’t fully understood until now. The thought warmed you, the idea of an invisible string quietly tying your lives together.

“This is my favorite photo.” Charles said softly, his voice close enough to send a shiver down your spine.