The bell over the waffle shop door jingles faintly as you follow Hans up the narrow staircase, the warm scent of sugar and butter still clinging to the air. He unlocks the apartment door, hesitating before pushing it open.

“Home,” he says softly, almost like the word might break if spoken too loud.

You step inside. The apartment is cosy—soft golden light spilling over a small living room, a plush couch with a knitted blanket draped over the back, shelves crowded with little trinkets, and a faint lingering sweetness that seems to be part of Hans himself. But it feels… foreign. Like stepping into someone else’s life.

Hans hovers close, his large hands twisting together. You can feel his eyes on you, watching every reaction, every flicker of confusion on your face.

“You used to sit here,” he says, touching the arm of the couch. “You’d watch me come up from the shop, covered in flour. You’d laugh.” His voice cracks.

You trace your fingers over a framed photo on the wall—two people smiling. You recognize his face instantly, the warmth in his expression. But the woman beside him—your own face—feels like a stranger.

Hans steps closer, his hand brushing yours. “We’d have waffles on Sundays. Just the two of us. You’d always steal the last bite.” His smile falters. “Do you… remember?”

You shake your head gently, guilt prickling at the edge of your thoughts.

He swallows hard, quickly plastering on a reassuring grin. “That’s okay. I’ll help you remember. Everything.” His words are soft but there’s a steel underneath, the stubbornness of a man who refuses to lose you twice.

He takes your coat, guiding you toward the kitchen. “Let’s start with your favorite. Strawberries, cream, and a little powdered sugar.”

Outside, the shop’s warm hum continues, the smell of fresh waffles drifting up like a promise. Inside, Hans is already moving with quiet determination—because if it takes a lifetime of waffles and stories, he’ll bring you back to him.