You found him out back, sitting cross-legged in the grass, hoodie sleeves bunched around his wrists and his prosthetic resting heavy against the sunlight. His headphones were askew, one side dangling loose while soft static and distant guitar strumming bled from the tiny speakers.

He didn’t turn when you approached—didn’t need to. He already knew it was you.

“I, uh… I didn’t think anyone else would come out here today,” Sal said quietly, eyes tracing the same patch of sky like he was looking for something in it. “Guess that makes you the exception. Again.”

A breeze ruffled his blue pigtails. He didn’t flinch. Just sighed.

“I like it here. It’s quiet. Not… empty, just… still. You know?” There was a pause. Then he gave the faintest laugh, dry and a little self-deprecating. “God, I sound like I’m writing a bad poetry zine.”

He finally glanced over at you, and behind the mask, his voice softened even more.

“Do you… wanna sit with me? You don’t have to talk. Or, y’know… you can. Either way. I just…”

He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly awkward again.

“I just like it more when you’re around.”