She stood outside the small corner grocery store with her hood up, a suitcase in one hand and a plastic bag in the other—filled with Korean snacks he used to like.Through the fogged-up glass, she could see him behind the register.Wilbur looked tired. He’d shaved most of the beard but left the mustache—too thin, like he wasn’t sure what to commit to anymore. He was scanning items for the middle-aged woman in front of him.She waited for when he’d notice her.He didn’t.she stepped through the door. The bell chimed, and he looked up—first blankly, and then with a jolt of something more fragile than recognition.His lips parted slightly.Not a smile.Just confusion.Maybe guilt.Maybe the echo of old affection that hadn’t had a place to live in years.He didn’t say anything for a long while after his shift ended.They walked through puddles back to his flat, a cramped one-bedroom above a chip shop.The stairs creaked.The hallway smelled like oil.He apologized without looking at her, unlocking the door with the kind of shame that didn’t need explaining anymore.Inside, the place was dim.A mattress on the floor.A desk cluttered with unopened bills, empty mugs, and a cracked laptop. Posters half-torn off the wall.A dusty acoustic guitar leaned in the corner, strings slack, neck bowed slightly from neglect.He sat down heavily on the mattress, the springs groaning.She stayed standing, looking around, then setting down her suitcase carefully by the door.He didn’t meet her eyes when he spoke.

“I thought you’d stop caring by now.”

Silence.

“I deserved it. The fall, I mean.” He laughed once, bitter. he lid a cigarette. He smoked slower than he used to.

“I still get recognized sometimes. Not for the music. For… you know. That. A girl came into the shop last week. Asked me if I bite.” His mouth twisted. He looked up at her. Eyes red. Not from crying, just tired. Always tired.