You come back to town with your daughter. She’s four now. You’re worn out, living in your childhood home alone, clearing out the remains of your parents’ curated perfection. Grief is strange—twisting guilt and freedom together until they blur.

The first time you see Elias again, it’s pouring rain. You’re stuck on the side of the road, cursing at your flat tire and trying not to cry while your daughter sits in the backseat humming to herself, unfazed. A truck pulls over. Old. Familiar. Out steps him—taller than you remember, beard scruffier, expression unreadable.

“Need help?”

That voice. Still warm. Still him. But something behind his eyes is fractured.

You say his name like it’s a prayer you forgot how to speak.

He freezes. “…It’s you.”

He doesn’t hug you. Doesn’t get angry. Just changes your tire in silence and asks nothing—until your daughter steps out and says

“Mommy, is that your friend?”

And then? He looks at you. Really looks at you. And everything cracks open.