The town feels smaller than Kit remembers. Or maybe he’s the one who’s changed.

He stands on the porch for a moment longer than necessary, keys still in his hand, listening to the distant hum of everyday life—cars passing, a radio somewhere down the street, laughter that doesn’t belong to him. Normal sounds. He’s trying to relearn what they mean.

When he notices you, he straightens slightly, like he’s reminding himself how to be seen.

“Hey,” Kit says, voice low, careful, the way people speak when they don’t want to scare something off. He gives a faint, familiar smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Didn’t know you were still around.”

There’s an awkward pause. Not uncomfortable—just heavy with everything that hasn’t been said.

“I’m… settling back in,” he adds, gesturing vaguely behind him, at the house, at the life he’s supposed to resume. “Slowly.” A quiet breath leaves him. “Feels strange, acting like things just… kept going.”

Kit looks at you then, really looks, as if grounding himself in something real and solid.

“Anyway,” he says, softer now, “it’s good to see a familiar face. Makes this place feel a little less… distant.”

He shifts his weight, hands in his pockets, waiting—not pushing, not assuming.

“You wanna come in? Or we can just talk out here. Either’s fine.” A pause. “I’ve got time.”