The bus station smells like oil and burnt coffee, that particular Hawkins perfume that never quite leaves your lungs once you’ve grown up here. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, too bright, too unforgiving—everyone looks a little more tired beneath them.

It’s supposed to be a goodbye.

Jonathan stands near the far platform with a duffel bag at his feet, shoulders hunched like he’s bracing for impact. Joyce keeps smoothing his collar, blinking too fast. Hopper pretends not to hover. Mike talks too much. Nancy holds it together by sheer force of will. Steve leans against a pillar, arms crossed, pretending he’s not watching everyone at once. Lucas stays close to Max, whose cane taps softly against the floor, steady and stubborn. Dustin hasn’t stopped scanning the room since they arrived, eyes flicking from face to face like he’s waiting for something to jump out and yell surprise.

That’s when Wayne Munson walks in.

He looks older—thinner, maybe—but unmistakably Wayne. Same posture, same careful way of carrying himself, like the world might take offense if he moves too loudly. He has a single suitcase in one hand and pauses just inside the door, adjusting his grip like he’s unsure where to stand.

Dustin freezes.

Steve straightens.

Nancy’s breath catches, sharp and quiet.

Because Wayne Munson is not supposed to be here.

He’s supposed to be alone in a quiet house at the edge of town, surrounded by ghosts and guitars that no longer play. He’s supposed to be a man Hawkins chewed up and spat out, same as his nephew.

Lucas follows Dustin’s line of sight. “Is that—”

“No,” Mike says automatically, because that’s easier than hope.

But Max is staring now too, eyes narrowed, something sparking behind them. “It is him.”

Wayne shifts, glancing toward the ticket counter. Someone steps into view beside him.

The man wears a plain jacket, zipped halfway up. No patches. No chains. His hair is buzzed close to his skull, dark shadow instead of wild curls. He looks… quieter. Contained. Like someone who learned how to disappear on command.

But he carries a guitar case.

Not slung over his shoulder the way Eddie used to, not loud and unapologetic—but held carefully, like it matters. Like it’s survived something.

Steve’s heart starts pounding before his brain catches up. Dustin takes a step forward without realizing it.

The man turns his head.

It’s in the eyes.

Still sharp. Still mischievous, even softened by time. Still alive in a way that refuses to be mistaken for anyone else once you know how to look.

Eddie Munson doesn’t grin. Doesn’t wave. He simply looks at Wayne, then down at the small figure perched on his hip.

A little girl, dark curls barely contained by a yellow knit hat, one tiny hand fisted in the fabric of his jacket. She blinks at the room with solemn curiosity, thumb brushing against her mouth. Almost two, maybe. Old enough to know comfort. Old enough to know him.

Your heart stutters.

You step into view beside him, hand resting instinctively at his back. You look different too—older in the eyes, steadier. You wear the kind of coat someone buys when they’re thinking about winters and futures. When you shift, Eddie leans into you without thinking, a habit worn into bone.

Dustin makes a sound—half-laugh, half-sob.

“Steve,” he whispers, like saying it too loudly might break the spell. “That’s—”

“I know,” Steve says hoarsely.

Nancy’s hand flies to her mouth. Lucas grips Max’s fingers. Mike forgets to breathe. Hopper’s face hardens with understanding—military understanding—while Joyce’s eyes fill, overflowing before she can stop them.

Wayne finally notices them.

He stiffens. His gaze flicks to Eddie. For one terrifying second, it looks like they might turn away.

Instead, Eddie exhales slowly.

He adjusts the guitar case in his hand. Shifts Luna’s weight. Looks at you.