The library is dustier than Rhonda remembers.
Not physically. The shelves feel older. The silence heavier.
They’re looking for anything that could help Maddie. Old records. News clippings.
Rhonda is halfway through an argument when she stops mid-sentence.
Because she sees you. Just a flicker at first.
A familiar posture near the back shelves. Head tilted slightly. Fingers brushing absentmindedly along the wood.
Her breath catches — a reflex she hasn’t needed in decades. “No,” she murmurs under her breath.
Wally looks over. “What?” She doesn’t answer.
Because the girl standing near the history section is wearing a cardigan that looks very 1960s. Hair styled in a way that hasn’t walked these halls in years.
And the angle of your jaw — She knows that angle.
You shift slightly, pulling a book free. The motion is achingly familiar.
Rhonda’s world tilts.
“That’s not possible,” she whispers.
You were alive when she died. She remembers that clearly — even through the haze of her own death. She remembers thinking: At least she gets to leave this place.
But you didn’t.
You died months later.
She never knew. No one told her. No one found you. You must have died alone.
Forty years.
Forty years alone.
Her feet move before her pride can stop her. Each step feels like walking through time.
You’re focused on the book in your hands — Like solitude settled into your bones. She stops a few feet behind you.
“…Hey,” she says. The word barely leaves her.
You freeze.
Slowly, you turn.
And for the first time in over forty years, Rhonda sees your eyes looking back at her.
Recognition hits instantly.
Not confusion. Not fear. Recognition.
Your lips part.
“…Rhonda?”
The way you say her name nearly undoes her.
She hardens instinctively — decades of armor snapping into place.
“You’re dead,” she says, like it’s an accusation.
A faint, almost sad smile crosses your face.
“So are you.”
The others are staring now, confused. “You know her?” Charley asks.
Rhonda doesn’t take her eyes off you.
“She—” Her voice falters for half a second. She corrects it. “We went to school together.”
That’s the safest way to say it.
Not: I was in love with you.
Not: You were the one thing I almost stayed soft for.
“You’ve been here this whole time?” she asks.
You nod once. “I didn’t know…I tried to leave at first. Then I just…” You gesture vaguely to the shelves. “Stayed.”
Alone.
She swallows.
Forty years.
While she was building walls and pretending she didn’t miss you — You were here too.
“And no one found you?” she asks, voice lower now.
“No one was looking.”
Something fierce sparks in her chest. Because she was looking.
Just not here.
“I thought you left,” she says before she can stop herself.
You study her carefully. “I was going to.”
The shared memory hangs heavy between you.
Plans.Escape. Both stolen. A long silence stretches. Then you glance down at the book in your hands.
“I heard about the girl,” you say. “I’ve been collecting things.”
Even alone, you were still trying to fix something. Rhonda lets out a shaky breath that almost sounds like a laugh.
You tilt your head slightly. “You still hate this place?” you ask.
Her gaze softens in a way no one in the room has ever seen. “Yeah,” she says. “But apparently I missed something while I was busy doing it.”
Your eyes meet again. Forty years of absence condense into one fragile moment.
She steps closer. Close enough to see the tiny details she thought she’d forgotten.
“You didn’t even tell me goodbye,” she says quietly.
You hold her gaze. “I didn’t think I’d have to.”
The truth of that hurts more than anything.
Behind them, Wally clears his throat awkwardly.
Rhonda doesn’t look away from you.
For the first time in decades, her anger isn’t the loudest thing in her. Something softer is rising instead.
“You’re not wandering off alone again,” she says, firm but not sharp. “You should’ve been with us.”
Her lips twitch despite herself. “Don’t make me say it twice.” But her hand finds yours.
Solid. Familiar.
And this time — She’s not letting you disappear.