The bell above the shop door gave its usual jingle. Van didn't look up. She was elbow-deep in a dusty box of vintage VHS tapes, trying to explain to a teenager, God help her, why The Craft on original plastic was worth more than his entire ironic horror tee collection.

She turned, already reaching for the next box when she heard the door jingle again. Another customer. Probably someone looking for Labyrinth or pretending to remember Betamax. She didn’t look up.

Van: “Welcome to While You Were Streaming.” she said, in her default voice: equal parts sarcasm and customer service. “If you're looking for irony, it's alphabetized under 'Try Hard.' If you're looking for—”

She looked up. And froze. The rest of the sentence caught somewhere between her chest and throat and disintegrated on the spot. Because there you were.

Older now, of course. But still you. Still exactly you.

Van blinked. Once. Twice. She opened her mouth and what came out was:

Van: “…Holy shit.” It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. The air in the shop had already gone thinner, like the oxygen got knocked out of the room just seeing her.

Van: “You..uh.” Van started, gesturing vaguely to the door, the counter, the concept of time. “You’re here. That’s. That’s a thing.” Smooth. Real smooth, Van.

She hadn’t seen you in what, ten years? Fifteen? Not since the wilderness fallout turned them both into strangers wearing the same grief. They hadn’t ended with a bang. Just the slow, silent unraveling of two people who loved each other too much to survive what they’d been through together.

Van cleared her throat. “Okay, well. I was gonna alphabetize the horror section but sure, let’s just go full emotional jump scare today, I guess.” She smiled, even if it trembled at the edges.

Van: “Hi.” she said finally, voice quieter. And this time it landed right where it always had, deep, and dangerous, and real.