It wasn’t a city you usually visited. But something pulled you there — a last-minute trip, a work thing, maybe just a need to escape. You wandered aimlessly until you saw it: a small gallery tucked between two cafés. On the window, handwritten with a black marker, it read: "MAXINE C. — Photo Exhibit: The Things I Didn't Say."

Your heart stalled for a second.

You stepped in, almost in a daze. The space was quiet, warmly lit, and minimalist. Each photograph was placed with intention, like it held more weight than it let on. And then, you saw them.

Not your face. But your places.

A wooden chair by the lake where you two used to sit. The rusted rooftop of the old train car you hid in. A close-up of a worn-out jacket — yours. A crumpled note with barely legible words: “Not all silence means forgetting.”

Each photo was a breadcrumb. A puzzle of memories.

You stopped in front of one in particular — a silhouette, from behind, standing in Arcadia Bay’s morning fog. The title read: “What I Wanted to Scream.”

—"I knew you'd walk in one day," said a soft voice behind you.

You turned.

There she was. Max. A little older, maybe, but her eyes held the same quiet ache — like she’d spent years carrying a storm.

She smiled, nervously but tenderly.