The rain had stopped, but the air still smelled of rust and something else—like old perfume, faded and forgotten. The community center loomed ahead, a hulking silhouette with shattered windows that once framed parties, dances, lives. Now, it only held dust. And music.

You stepped beside Jack and Tosh as the strains of a Glenn Miller tune filtered out through the walls — slow, scratchy, but impossibly real.

“That music,” you murmured. “No way a stereo's still working in there.”

Jack gave you a sidelong look, a smile creeping at the edges of his mouth. “That’s because it isn’t. Not in our time, anyway.”

Tosh adjusted her scanner, frowning. “The Rift’s energy is surging inside. Like it’s... anchored here.”

The doors creaked open with a reluctant groan. The music grew louder. You stepped inside.

The hall was different than it should have been. The flickering fluorescents were gone — instead, chandeliers hung above, glowing warm. Tables lined with silverware, candles flickering, people in 1940s dress laughing, twirling, living. It was a different time, folding in over yours.

Jack stepped forward like a man in a dream. You followed close.

Tosh stayed by the wall, trying to stabilize her readings, whispering, “This shouldn’t be possible.”

You looked around — you weren’t just seeing the past. You were in it. People glanced your way, as if you belonged. The music swelled — a slow ballad, violins sighing, the world softening.

And then Jack turned to you.

His eyes, always filled with a thousand hidden wars, were gentler here. Lighter. “Dance with me?” he asked.

There was a pause, an invisible breath of time suspended between the beats. You nodded.

Jack took your hand — strong, warm, confident — and led you to the center of the floor. The other dancers made space, though they never stopped moving. As if they knew this moment belonged to something... deeper.

You moved together, slowly at first. Jack's hand rested at your waist, and your steps found rhythm not just in the music, but in the connection humming between you. It was close — not just physical, but real. His smile wasn’t the roguish grin you’d seen back in the Hub. It was vulnerable. True.

“I don’t get many chances to do this,” he said softly, voice barely above the music.

“Dance?” you asked.

He shook his head. “Be seen. Be here. Be... known.”

The song swelled. His gaze locked on yours like he was memorizing it — for whatever came next.

“Will we remember this?” you asked.

He looked around. “Maybe not with your mind. But something in your heart? That part never forgets.”