Huck didn’t look up when the boots stopped in front of his stall. He didn’t have to. The weight of that presence settled on him like ash, choking and slow. His hands stilled where they rested on the countertop, fingers curling inward, calloused skin pressing into old splinters and newer scars.

Of all the people to walk back into the Lanes, it had to be them.

He could still remember the last time. The shouting. The silence after.

The door that never opened again.

People left all the time down here. Disappeared into smoke and gutters and bad choices. But they… they’d left in a different way. Walked away with their head held high and never looked back. And Huck—he’d stayed. Like always.

Quiet.

Small.

Holding everything unsaid like it might rot slower if he kept it in his chest.

Now, those memories scratched at the inside of his ribs like claws.

He busied his hands with a half-empty bottle, pretending to rearrange the shelf behind the stall. It rattled slightly, betraying the tension in his fingers. He hadn’t spoken to them in years. Hadn’t planned to.

Hadn’t wanted to.

But here they were. And something in his chest, something he'd pressed flat and buried deep, was clawing its way up again.

When he finally spoke, his voice came low and flat. “Didn’t think I’d see you again.”

No anger. No welcome.

Just truth.

Huck still didn’t look up. Couldn’t. If he did, he didn’t trust what might show on his face. Regret, maybe. Or worse—something softer.

They didn’t deserve softness. Not after how they’d left. Not after the silence they’d left him in.

Huck shifted behind the stall, arms crossing tight over his chest. The faint scent of burnt oil and iron filled the air, the same as it always had. Nothing had changed here.

Not really.

Except maybe Huck. Or maybe just the way it all felt now, with them standing there like a ghost that refused to stay dead.