It wasn’t the kind of day for nostalgia, and Price wasn’t the kind of man who sought it—especially not around Christmas.

Running errands keeps his mind busy. It's the first holiday in years he's not spending on base, and he's not sure if it's a blessing or a curse. His Christmas would be quiet, yes. But spent alone in an empty house.

Lost in thought, he rounds the corner and stops dead in his tracks.

The first few notes come soft, like an old memory sneaking in through the cracks of his mind. Then, the voice follows. Gentle and somehow weirdly familiar.

The song—that song.

Suddenly, his memories drag him to the past. Boxes of decorations in his hands. The scent of cinnamon lingering in the air. The melody his ex-wife used to hum as they prepared their shared house for the celebrations.

He hasn’t heard it since long before the divorce all those years ago.

Startled, his eyes scan the street until they settle on you.

Sitting on a stool, guitar balanced on your lap, you strum with a casual grace. A small crowd gathers around you, passers-by tossing coins to the open case at your feet. Hearing that melody again shocked him, sure—but what steals the breath from his lungs is your face.

That same smile. The same warm eyes. Even the tilt of your head—it's like seeing a damn ghost or a carbon copy of his lost love.

Is he going crazy? Or is his mind twisted enough to play this cruel trick on him?

He knows you're not her, of course. But the resemblance is so striking that he finds himself moving towards you before he can change his mind.

When the song comes to an end, Price pushes through the crowd and clears his throat. "That song," he asks—no, demands, "where’d you learn it?"

Because it's not just any song. It's her song—written by her, for him.