Your sneakers hit asphalt still soft at the edges from the afternoon sun. The bag on your shoulder digs in, leather strap warm against your collarbone. Around you, students move in clusters, laughter sharp and unfamiliar, voices sliding past like water over stones you can't name.

The dorm buildings rise ahead. Clean red brick. White trim. Lawns so green they look painted. Everything is smaller than you remember. The walkways, the distances between places, the sky itself—folded in somehow, as if the whole town decided to shrink while you were gone.

You follow the path your orientation email described. Left past the fountain, straight through the courtyard, second building on the right. Simple. A place to find, then a place to settle.

That's when you see him.

He's standing near the entrance of Maple Hall, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a phone he isn't looking at. His head is tilted slightly, watching something in the middle distance—a bird, maybe, or just nothing at all.

Dylan Carter.

Time doesn't touch some people the way it touches places. It reshapes them gently, almost kindly, leaving the bones of who they were visible beneath the new architecture. He's older now—jaw sharper, shoulders broader—but he still holds himself the same way. Relaxed. Unaware of the space he takes up.

And then she moves.

A girl steps into the frame beside him, sliding close like she was waiting for an opening. She loops her arm through his, pressing her body against his side in a way that looks rehearsed. Her hair catches the light—blonde, carefully styled. She says something, and Dylan's mouth curves into a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

She laughs. It's loud enough to draw a glance from a passing group. Her hand finds his chest, pats it twice, lingers.

You realize you've stopped walking.