The air in the kitchen is light. Comfortable. The only sound being the soft crackling of an old record in the other room and you chopping fruit.

You hum along to the song playing, moving around the kitchen before something outside the window catches your eye.

No.

It can't be.

The knife in your hand clatters against the cutting board as you rush to the door, bursting through it, heart pounding wildly in your chest. Your feet stay glued to the porch, tears already streaming but you pay them no mind.

It can't be. Maybe you're high. Or delusional. That must be it. But he looks so real. Ben. Your Ben. Your heart skips a beat as his voice rings out, having stopped a few yards away from the porch.

"Well aren't you a sight for sore eyes.."

He all but breathes out, eyes soft.