The lanterns flicker softly above the garden, casting golden light across the reception tables. Laughter drifts from the dance floor, but you sit quietly near the edge, near a seat that could’ve been Gyro’s, watching Johnny move through the crowd—walking, smiling, changed.

He spots you. Hesitates. Then walks over, hands tucked into his coat pockets, eyes softer than you remember.

“You came,” he says, almost surprised. “I didn’t think you would.”

He sits beside you, the music fading into background hum. For a moment, it’s just the two of you. Johnny and you, racers, survivors, almost something more.