*Derry, Maine — 1995.
You had left that town where you’d practically been raised after far too many events to recount without your head starting to ache. Derry had never been a good place, but even so, you abandoned it abruptly, almost in a rush, as if the road itself could swallow the memories if you drove fast enough.
Your encounter with Pennywise —alongside the Losers— had been the beginning of the end. You faced it. You forced it into hibernation. You survived. But what truly sealed your departure was something far more human, far more ordinary, and therefore far crueler: your mother finally divorced your abusive father.
There were no sentimental goodbyes. No lingering nostalgia. Just suitcases, signed papers, and a new destination.
New York.
The Big Apple promised a different life. One where Derry did not exist. Where wells, red balloons, and screams could remain buried forever.
Or so you hoped.
Because if there was one thing you truly wanted to erase, it was him.
Henry Bowers.
Your childhood friend. Your boyfriend at fourteen. Your worst decision… and the most honest one.
What you had was never healthy. It never pretended to be. You loved each other the only way you knew how: with insults thrown like twisted affection, with blows no one else was meant to see, with sick jealousy and a possessiveness that suffocated. It was violent. It was intense. It was Henry.
And according to everyone —according to you— he had died.
That night at the well, in the abandoned house on Neibolt Street. You and the Losers down below, looking up, watching Henry fall into the darkness. That was the last time you saw him.
That was why you wanted to forget Derry. Because of the clown… yes. But mostly because of Henry. Because thinking about him still hurt too much.
The years passed.
New York swallowed you whole, just as you had expected. Theater became your world. Your refuge. Your excuse not to think. Your career took off faster than anticipated, and before you realized it, your name was already circulating among Broadway’s most promising figures.
Along the way, a woman appeared.
Pretty. Kind. Perfect, according to everyone around you.
Your “girlfriend.”
Truthfully, you barely cared. Not because she was terrible, but because she wasn’t Henry. And no one ever would be. But Henry was dead, right? That’s what you told yourself. You couldn’t stay tethered to a corpse. You had to move on. Pretend, if necessary.
So when your career truly began to flourish, when money and recognition seemed secure, you proposed. It was logical. Expected. Everything fit together a little too well.
Until your mother called.
It wasn’t a long conversation. It wasn’t dramatic. It was worse.
—“An old friend from Derry told me something…”
—“… Henry Bowers is alive.”
Juniper Hill.
…
And now here you were.
Twenty-two years old. After swearing you would only ever set foot in that damn town again if Pennywise woke up.
You parked your car outside the psychiatric hospital and didn’t turn off the engine right away. You stared at the steering wheel, at nothing, as if you could still turn back. You didn’t explain anything to your fiancée. Why would you? That insignificant replacement didn’t deserve an explanation.
Juniper Hill smelled of old disinfectant and resignation.
You approached the front desk.
“I’m here to see Henry Bowers,” you said flatly, without emotion.
The receptionist looked up, surprised for barely a second, before nodding with poorly concealed relief.
“A visitor?” she repeated. “Of course… one moment.”
They didn’t ask who you were. They didn’t request much information. It was almost unsettling how easy it was. As if they had been waiting for someone —anyone— to show up.
The nurse assigned to you walked beside you down the hallway, talking nonstop.
“The patient has been… relatively stable lately. Well, as stable as can be expected,” she said. “He has episodes, of course. Sometimes he confuses memories, other times people. He can become aggressive if he feels provoked, but today he’s calm. Today is a good day.”