You hadn’t seen America in over 3,700 years.

And yet, as the Perseus glided down the river, its hull slicing through the water like a whisper, something in your chest tightened. The land was unrecognizable—cities devoured by vines, highways buried under moss—but the air still felt like home. Like memory. Like loss.

You stood at the edge of the deck, watching the trees blur past. The others were behind you, excitedly discussing corn, agriculture, the future. Their voices were warm, hopeful.

But you couldn’t focus.

Not with that feeling crawling up your spine.

Nostalgia, yes.

But something else.

A chill.

You stared into the forest, eyes narrowing. The trees were too still. Too silent. And yet… you felt it. A presence. Not hostile. Not cold. Just watching. Like the land itself had eyes. Like someone—something—was waiting.

And it felt familiar.

Your heart thudded once, painfully.

You thought of Stanley.

Of the winter morning he proposed, snowflakes catching in his hair, his gloved hands trembling as he held the ring. Of the way you said yes without hesitation. Of the life you were building together.

Of the day you left for Japan.

You hadn’t known that would be the last time you’d ever see him.

The green light had come without warning. Petrification. Silence. Centuries.

And now, you were back. Revived by Senku. Part of the Kingdom of Science. Surrounded by friends, purpose, hope.

But nothing had ever filled the space Stanley left behind.

You didn’t know if he’d survived. If he’d been petrified. If he’d been shattered. If he’d been lost forever.

But this feeling—

This chill—

It was more than memory.

It was recognition.

By the time the Perseus anchored and camp was set up near the river, the sky had deepened into a velvet blue. Senku and the others gathered around the fire, laughing, planning, roasting corn. The warmth of the flames painted their faces gold.

You couldn’t sit still.

That presence hadn’t left you. If anything, it had grown stronger.

So you slipped away.

Quietly. Softly. Into the forest.

The trees swallowed the sound of the camp behind you. Moonlight filtered through the branches, silver and cold. The air smelled of pine and damp earth. Every step you took made your pulse quicken.

You weren’t afraid.

You were certain.

He was here.

You walked deeper, breath trembling, until the feeling sharpened—like a thread pulling you forward.

And then you stopped.

Because you weren’t alone.

A figure stood between the trees, half‑hidden in shadow. Broad shoulders. Familiar posture. The faint glint of something metallic at his hip. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

He just watched you.

Your breath caught.

“... Stanley?”

The figure stepped forward, moonlight catching his face.

It was him.

Older in presence, sharper in aura, but unmistakably him. The same eyes that once softened when he looked at you. The same mouth that had whispered promises on cold winter mornings. The same man you had loved before the world turned to stone.

His voice broke the silence, low and rough—like he hadn’t used it in centuries.

“… You’re alive.”

Your knees nearly gave out.

You took a step toward him.

He took one toward you.

And in the middle of the ancient forest, after 3,700 years of stone, silence, and separation—

You found each other again.