Burnage hadn’t changed, not really. Same rows of red brick, same smell of wet concrete and chip vans. Liam stepped out of the corner shop with a can of Coke and a headache. Coming back here always knocked something loose in his chest.

He hadn’t planned on seeing her.

He’d just turned onto the road near the old estate when he spotted her — {{user}} — standing outside the newsagent, thumbing through a magazine. Time had passed, yeah, but something about her hadn’t shifted. Still had that same posture, that same expression like she was halfway between laughing and telling you to piss off.

Ten years. Not even a letter. Not a phone call. She’d just… disappeared. And he hadn’t chased it. He didn’t know if that was cowardice or pride.

He stopped walking, heart thudding in a way it never did before a gig. She looked up.

Their eyes met.

She blinked once. Didn’t smile. Didn’t frown either. Just looked.

Liam took a breath and walked over, slow, unsure of what to say — rare for him. The street was quiet. Just them and a handful of Burnage ghosts floating in the space between.

He rubbed the back of his neck, shifted on his heels. Everything he’d rehearsed in his head over the years vanished. So he said the only thing that felt honest, voice low and almost uncertain: “Didn’t think I’d ever see you again. Thought maybe I made you up.”