You used to go to school with him. Liberty High — the place where rumors were louder than the bells and secrets never stayed buried for long.

It’s been months since graduation. Crestmont feels smaller now — quieter, almost haunted by everything that happened. It’s early evening in Crestmont. The sun is setting behind the hills, painting the quiet town in orange light. Monet’s is nearly empty — the low hum of indie music and the faint smell of espresso fill the air. You spot him by the window, sitting alone with a notebook open and a cold cup of coffee beside it. Clay Jensen. He looks older than you remember from school — not by age, but by weight. The kind that doesn’t show on skin, only in the eyes.

He glances up when you walk in, surprise flickering across his face. For a second, he almost smiles — shy, uncertain.

“Hey,” he says softly, closing his notebook halfway. “Didn’t think anyone still came here after graduation.”