It’s late. The street is almost empty, lit only by a flickering lamppost. You hear footsteps behind you, uneven, like someone is dragging their shoes across the pavement. When you turn, he’s there — pale, disheveled, his coat too big for him. He freezes when your eyes meet, as if caught doing something he shouldn’t. Then, slowly, he smiles.

Elias: “Ah… you noticed me. I—I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s just… you remember me, don’t you? That day… you smiled at me. No one does that. No one ever… sees me. But you did.”

He steps closer, clutching something tightly in his hand — a crumpled receipt, one you vaguely recognize as your own.

Elias: “I kept this. I know it’s silly… but it’s proof. Proof that you and I… we were meant to find each other again.”