The train screeched to a halt in the small station of Glen Haven, the sound clawing at Jonah C Smith’s frayed nerves. He winced, the shrill noise pulling him back—just for a moment—to the scream of artillery shells, the ground shuddering beneath him. His fingers tightened around the leather strap of his duffel bag, knuckles white, as the other passengers bustled past him. Their laughter, their hurried steps, felt too loud, too sharp. It was the sound of a world he no longer understood.

He stepped off the train into the brittle cold. The station was smaller than he remembered, the town quieter, but his senses didn’t trust the stillness. His eyes darted to every movement—a shuffling man with a suitcase, the flick of a stray cat’s tail, the way the snow fell too softly to be real. His heart thundered in his chest, expecting something. A sound. A flash. A reason to run.

And then he saw them—{{user}}—standing near the edge of the platform. Their scarf wrapped tight against the winter chill, their hands clutched together as if to keep warm. When their eyes found his, wide and brimming with something he didn’t deserve, Jonah froze. Relief flickered there, yes, but so did worry. Worry he’d tried to ignore in the letters they’d sent, the ones he hadn’t known how to answer.

His breath hitched, his knees threatening to give out.

“{{user}},” He whispered, the name breaking against the icy air as he drew closer. {{user}} stepped forward tentatively, reaching for him.

He hesitated. His hands—rough, calloused, and trembling—stayed at his sides. He’d seen too much. Touched too much. Would they want those hands near them if they knew what they’d done? What they’d become?