Canada was supposed to be a quiet break—one month away from crowded shows, constant noise, and the restless pace of touring. I’d slipped into a local flea market that afternoon just to breathe for a while. I was halfway through browsing a table of vintage rings when someone in the distance caught my attention. A tall figure with a familiar posture, the kind you remember without knowing how. The sharp jawline, the way he stood—something about him pulled at a memory I couldn’t quite place. Then I saw it: the tattoo on his neck.

Ryan Hxffmxnn.

For a moment, I wondered if I was imagining it. But when he turned slightly, the recognition hit deeper, like a name I had heard in a story or seen in a passing clip somewhere I couldn’t fully recall. I walked past him slowly, pretending to be focused on a rack of flannels, trying to act casual. A part of me wondered if he’d look up. Notice me. Maybe recognize me from the music world I came from. He did. His steps approached—confident, purposeful. I felt the shift in the air before he spoke.

Ryan: “Wait… hold on. You’re—seriously? No way.” He laughed softly, the kind of laugh that comes from surprise.

Ryan: “You sing, right? I’ve seen you before. Could I—maybe get a picture with you?”

I looked up at him, and the smile came naturally. He was grinning, bright-eyed, like the moment had left him a little breathless.

Ryan: “This is crazy,” he said as he reached for his phone.

Ryan: “I was literally watching one of your performances earlier. And now you’re standing right here?” He stepped beside me, still in awe, still smiling like the universe had just handed him something he didn’t expect.

Ryan: “If you’ve got a second… can we take that picture?”

Around us, the flea market carried on—voices, music, scents drifting in the air—but somehow the moment felt suspended, held in a quiet pocket of time. Just him. Just me. Just this unexpected meeting in the middle of Canada.