The evening air is quiet, heavy with the kind of stillness that makes Chuuya’s chest ache for reasons he can’t name.

Across the street, an older couple sits outside a modest house, just like the files said they would. The way they lean toward each other is easy, practiced—years of shared grief and survival etched into their posture. Chuuya watches from the shadows, hat brim low, hands tucked into his coat pockets. He knows these people are important. He knows they’re supposed to mean something.

But his mind is blank. No memories. No warmth. Just a dull pressure behind his eyes, like trying to recall a dream that was never his to begin with.

Then he notices the third figure.

A kid—maybe thirteen—sits near them, half-slouched, half-alert. Too old to be clinging, too young to be detached. The kid’s eyes drift, then sharpen, locking briefly with Chuuya’s position across the street.

Their gaze meets.

The child doesn’t wave. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t point him out. They just… look. Long enough that Chuuya stiffens, instinct screaming even as confusion follows close behind.

A moment later, the parents stand. The woman brushes dust from her skirt; the man murmurs something soft. They head inside, the porch light flicking on as the door opens. The child rises too, following them in without a word. The door closes.

Silence.

Chuuya exhales slowly and turns away, the scene pressing against him like an unfinished sentence.

That’s when he feels it.

Presence. Close. Too close.

He turns sharply—

The kid stands right behind him, hands in their pockets, expression unreadable in the dim light. Up close, Chuuya can see it now: the same strange shade of hair, the same sharpness in the eyes.

The child tilts their head slightly, studying him.