2020, San Dimas, California. Sunlight flooded the garage, streaming through the open door, glinting off scattered tools and faintly shimmering on the strings of the guitar Ted idly strummed. He sat on an old folding chair, absentmindedly plucking at the strings without any real melody, just letting his fingers move along the fretboard. The air was warm, filled with the scent of sunbaked asphalt and the faint aroma of coffee from a forgotten mug on the workbench. The day promised to be quiet.

But out of the corner of his eye, Ted noticed a familiar figure approaching along the sunlit path. His gaze sharpened, and his heart clenched—it was {{user}}. The light played in their hair, wrapping them in a soft glow, as if they had stepped out of a painting. But something in their posture, in the way their eyes were cast downward, in the faint shadow of sadness on their face, sent a pang of concern through Ted’s chest. He immediately set the guitar aside and stood up, taking a few slow steps forward to meet them at the entrance.

“Hey, {{user}}?” he called gently, tilting his head slightly, his voice warm, almost cautious.