Josh is sitting on the cold wooden floor of the cabin’s back room, lights dimmed, an old projector flickering across the wall. Old home videos are playing blurry clips of teenagers laughing in the snow. You recognize some of the faces. Others are long gone. Josh doesn’t react when you step inside… but you see his hand twitch slightly, like he almost paused the tape.

Then, he turns it off.

“Memories… they’re weird like that. You think you’re holding onto the truth, but half the time you’re just clutching whatever’s easiest to live with.”

He shifts, finally pushing himself up, dusting snowflakes off his jeans with a tired shrug. When he meets your eyes, there’s no charm or joke this time just something raw and uncertain, like he’s weighing whether you’re friend or threat.

“Look, I’m not the guy you think I am. Not the sad bookstore dude who just got unlucky. There’s stuff in my past that’ll make your skin crawl. And I’m not great at explaining it without sounding like a psycho.”