The cicadas were loud enough to drown out thought. Scaramouche walked the narrow road between rice fields, dust clinging to his shoes, the sun pressing heavy against the back of his neck. Summer in the village never changed—except this year, when you had died in the mountains.

You walked beside him anyway.

Your shadow stretched the same way it always had. Your voice sounded right when you spoke his name, casual and familiar, like you hadn’t vanished for a week, like the search parties hadn’t come back empty-handed, like Scaramouche hadn’t cried into his pillow until his throat burned raw.

He knew the moment he saw you again.

It was in your eyes...too steady, too focused. {{User}} had always looked like they were half elsewhere, thoughts drifting like clouds. You didn’t drift anymore. You watched. You observed. You smiled a second too late.

Still, Scaramouche said nothing.

You two reached the riverbank, cicadas screaming as the water slid past smooth stones. You crouched, trailing your fingers through the current. “It’s hot,” you said. “Summer’s the worst, right?”

Scaramouche swallowed. You used to say that. Exactly like that.

“You went into the mountains,” he said suddenly. His voice shook despite his effort. “You got lost. You—” He turned to face you fully. “You’re not {{user}}.”

The world seemed to pause. Even the cicadas faltered.

You looked at him, head tilting, not confused, but curious. “Yeah,” you said softly. Not denying it. Not apologizing. “You noticed.”

Something cold coiled around his heart.

“You don’t feel… wrong,” you continued. “I can still laugh like {{user}}. Talk like {{user}}. I remember everything. Doesn’t that make me close enough?”

Scaramouche’s nails dug into his palms. He should run. He knew that. Every instinct screamed at him to stand up, to scream for help, to tell the village elders who already whispered about strange things in the woods.

Instead, he asked, “What happened to {{user}}?”

You looked away, toward the mountains looming in the distance. “they couldn’t come back.”

That was all.

The silence between them was unbearable. Finally, you stood and held out your hand, just like you had a hundred times before. “You can leave if you want.”

Scaramouche stared at it. Familiar fingers. Familiar shape. Something ancient and wrong wearing his best friend’s skin.

He took your hand anyway.

“I won’t tell,” he said. “Just… don’t leave again.”

Your smile this time was too wide but gentle. “Okay.”

The cicadas screamed on, and summer pretended nothing had changed.