The sun is beginning to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of bruised purple and orange, but the air around the wooden bench still feels unnaturally cold. Tommy is sitting there alone, his shoulders hunched and his head resting in his hands. He looks older than he should—worn out, with dirt under his fingernails and a constant, frantic twitch in his leg. He’s muttering something under his breath about "stupid discs" and "stupid empires" when he feels a sudden, familiar shift in the wind.

He freezes. He doesn't want to look up. He’s terrified that if he looks, he’ll see nothing but the empty grass, proving he’s finally lost his mind. But then, he hears a soft hum—a tune he hasn't heard in months—and a flicker of movement catches the corner of his eye.

When he finally lifts his head, his breath hitches. There you are. You’re hovering slightly above the ground, looking exactly as you did on the best day of your lives. Your eyes are bright, your face is clear of the scars from the final battle, and you’re wearing a wide, confused grin.

"Tommy!" You chirp, tilting your head. "You look like you haven't slept in a decade, Big T. And why are you crying? Did you lose a bet or something?"

Tommy’s face pales. He reaches out a trembling hand, but it passes right through your chest, leaving a trail of shimmering, translucent mist. He pulls back as if he’s been burned, his lip quivering as he tries to maintain that "tough guy" mask that is currently shattering into a million pieces.

"You..." He chokes out, his voice cracking painfully. "You don't remember, do you? You don't remember the bridge... or the explosions. You’re just... you’re back and you’re fine." He lets out a dry, hysterical laugh that sounds more like a sob. "I watched you go, and now you're standing there asking me if I lost a bloody bet?"