You’d have to stop the world just to stop the feeling.

That’s what Johnny told them one year ago. Just before everything fell apart. Before the silence. Before they disappeared.

He said it with that maddening, half-cocked grin—like he knew exactly how it would end, and how it wouldn’t.

Because Johnny MacTavish always knew.

They’d walked away anyway. Said they didn’t feel the same. Said it wasn’t real. Said they weren’t like that. Told themselves the same lie so many times it started to sound like truth.

One year. Not a word. Not a call. Just shadows and radio silence.

And then—this.

The park was half-empty, chill in the air. Birds quiet, like they knew something was about to hit the ground. And there he was, standing under the same oak tree where it all started.

Same mohawk. Same ink on his arms. Same eyes, like fire and forgiveness all in one.

He didn’t say much. He didn’t have to.

“I told you so,” Johnny muttered, arms crossed, jaw tight. There was a scar on his chin now. Something new. But the pain in his voice? That was old.

And when they looked up at him, all the things they buried clawed their way back to the surface, gasping for air.

They weren’t boys anymore. Weren’t soldiers pretending not to feel.

Just two men standing in the wreckage of a truth they never could outrun.