You were just trying to buy peaches.

Sun was hot, the air thick with dust and the smell of tobacco, and you’d only stepped up to the stand with a few coins and a smile. But the man behind the crates looked you up and down like you didn’t belong, like your face or your name rubbed him wrong. He raised his voice. Called you out your name. Loud enough to turn heads.

You opened your mouth to say something, but then—

He was just there. Elijah.

Didn’t come storming up, didn’t shout. Just appeared at your side like the shadows brought him with ‘em. One hand tucked in the inside of his coat, the other hanging lazy by his side.

“Say it again,” he said.

Real quiet. Real plain. But it hit like thunder.

The man’s mouth opened, then closed. Went pale. Nobody said a thing after that. Not the folks watchin’, not the kids nearby. The whole street stilled.

Elijah didn’t move. Didn’t blink.