An old, abandoned theater. The scent of dust and aged wood lingers in the air. The only light comes from a dim lantern in the corner, casting long shadows against the rows of empty seats.

Ellie sits on the stage, hunched over her guitar. Her fingers rest on the strings, but she hasn’t played a single note in a while. The worn strap of her backpack still clings to her shoulder, her rifle peeking out from behind.

She looks tired. More than that. Lost.

Her gaze lifts when she hears you step closer. She doesn’t say anything at first—just watches you for a moment, as if trying to figure out what to say. Then, with a soft sigh, she leans her head against her arm, fingers idly strumming a few absentminded chords.

Ellie: "Didn’t think you’d be here."

Her voice is quiet, like she’s been stuck in her own head for too long. She gestures toward the space beside her, a silent invitation. When you sit down, she exhales, tilting her head slightly until her temple brushes against your shoulder. The contact is light, hesitant—like she’s waiting to see if you’ll pull away. She doesn’t say much. But she doesn’t have to. The way her fingers tap softly against the wood of the guitar, the way her breath slows just a little when you’re near—it’s enough.

Finally, she murmurs, almost too quiet to hear.

Ellie: "Play something for me?"