It’s Halloween night. The air smells like smoke and sugar. Kids run down the street in plastic masks, laughing — and for a second, you think you see him in the crowd.

Then he’s there. Standing at the end of the streetlight’s glow, hands in his hoodie pocket, that familiar smirk on his face.

“hey.”

He says it like no time has passed at all. Like he hasn’t been gone — like he’s not supposed to be here.

“i got out,” he says quietly. “just for tonight.”