The workshop still smelled faintly of smoke. Tate never bothered getting rid of it. Let the walls remember. He was tightening a bolt on an old vice when the side door creaked open—the one nobody used anymore.

Tate froze.

Footsteps crossed the threshold. Familiar. Impossible. Slowly, he turned. There they stood, framed in the doorway like a ghost that had forgotten how to stay buried.

"...You shouldn't be here," he said.

The wind stirred dust between them. Tate looked away first.

"Door still sticks," he muttered, returning to his bench. "Always meant to fix it."

Silence settled sharp as broken glass. He poured two cups of coffee without asking, then set one down a little too carefully.

"If you're here for closure," he said, voice rough, "you're late."

He didn't ask why they'd come.

Truth was, he wasn't sure he wanted the answer. But some stubborn, buried part of him wasn't entirely angry they'd shown up.

Not yet.