Fall 2005 settles over Hollowridge like a song you almost remember.

Burnt orange leaves, cold air that smells like something ending, something waiting. The kind of evening that makes everything feel a little heavier—even the quiet.

Drew Stephen Young is on the field again.

Of course he is.

Hoodie pulled over his head, sleeves shoved past his wrists, old sneakers damp from the grass. The sky’s fading fast—gray bleeding into that soft, dying gold—and he’s still running drills like it matters.

Like if he stops, something will catch up to him.

The ball hits the net with a dull thud.

No cheers. No team. Just him.

And then—

“Practice ended forever ago, you know.”

{{user}}’s voice cuts through the air like it belongs there.

Drew doesn’t turn right away.

He just jogs after the ball, traps it under his foot, and exhales like he didn’t realize he was holding his breath.

“…yeah,” he says finally, glancing over his shoulder. “I noticed.”

{{user}} is leaning against the fence, hands tucked into his jacket, looking like he’s been there a minute.

Watching.

Drew smiles, automatic but softer than usual.

“You stalking me now?” he calls.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late.”