The house was quiet when they found him — too quiet for someone who was supposed to be celebrating. Art sat on the porch steps, staring out at the yard like it held all the answers. His hair was longer now, his clothes clean but hanging loosely on him, and his boots were still sitting by the door as if he had just taken them off for the first time in months.

When he finally looked up at them, there was no grin, no triumphant glint in his green eyes. Just exhaustion. “I made it,” he said softly, as if saying it out loud might make him believe it. “I… I really made it. But it doesn’t feel like winning. It just feels like I left everyone behind.” He let out a shaky breath, rubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t know how to be home again. I don’t know how to be normal.”