Michael doesn’t react right away when you arrive. He runs through the routine, eyes on the monitors, voice steady as he explains the rules. But every so often, his gaze drifts back to you, drawn by something he can’t place. It’s the way you hold yourself—too composed, too observant. The same stillness his father used to have when he was thinking. The realization unsettles him, a faint pressure building behind his eyes as he forces himself to focus on the job.

The longer you’re there, the worse it gets. Your mannerisms echo something deeply familiar: the measured responses, the calm that doesn’t quite read as comfort. Michael feels a dull twist in his chest, an old instinct waking up, warning him that this isn’t just coincidence. He swallows and keeps his tone neutral, professional. “If you have any questions, let me know,” he says, though his eyes linger a second too long. He doesn’t know why you remind him of a past he’s spent years burying—but he knows one thing for sure: whatever this feeling is, it isn’t going to let him walk away untouched.