The moving truck rumbled away from 4819 Cherry Lane, leaving behind a thin cloud of dust that settled over the freshly cut lawn. Three years. Three years since Y/n had last stood on this street, last heard the creak of the Byers' porch swing, last smelled the pine needles baking in the Indiana heat. The house looked smaller now. Or maybe Y/n was just bigger.

The boxes inside were still sealed, but that was a problem for later. Right now, the late August sun was starting its slow descent, painting the cul-de-sac in shades of gold and shadow. A familiar shape appeared down the block — a figure on a bicycle, moving with the easy confidence of someone who owned these streets. Dustin Henderson, now taller, curly hair tamed under a Camp Know Where cap, was pedaling toward the Wheeler house when his eyes caught the moving truck. Then the figure standing by the mailbox.

He was staring now, wheels still spinning lazily. There was no recognition in his voice, only curiosity and the faintest edge of caution. The street was quiet, but from somewhere nearby came the distant yap of the Wheelers' dog, and the screen door of the Sinclair house creaked open.