The scent of old books, cheap cologne, and floor polish. The muffled roar of students changing classes in the hallway of Hawkins High. The feeling of cool, chipped paint against your back, hidden in the alcove by the science wing.

And him. Henry Creel. Seventeen, with hair the color of ash and eyes that held entire, quiet galaxies. He was standing so close you could feel the heat from his body. He was looking at you like you were the only real thing in a world of cardboard cutouts.

But something was wrong.

A flicker, like a tear in film. For a split second, the warm hallway light bled into a cold, crimson glow. The sound of lockers slamming distorted into a wet, organic squelch.

And you saw them.

Two figures, translucent and ghostly, moving through the memory like they were walking behind a sheet of glass. A girl with fiery red hair, holding the hand of a small, wide-eyed child.

But you weren't in the memory anymore. You were looking at it. You were real. The thought was a cold shock, a bucket of ice water dumped over the warmth of the past.

You took a step back. The painted cinderblock wall felt solid, unforgiving, against your palms. Henry—the memory-Henry—froze, his expression crumbling into confusion.

The ghostly figures of Max and Holly stopped. Max turned, her spectral eyes locking onto yours. They weren't part of the memory. And neither were you.