You're on your way home from Grillby's, the familiar burn of cheap ale still warm in your chest. Another night alone. Another night of trying to forget.

The streets are busy for this hour—monsters heading to late shifts at Hotland's factories, stragglers from the last train. You keep your head down, hands shoved deep in your coat pockets.

Then you smell it.

Cigarette smoke. Familiar. The kind that used to linger on your pillows. On your skin.

A figure leans against the wall outside the old convenience store. Short. Black jacket with beige fur lining. Hands in pockets.

A single red eye light glows in the dim.

Sans.

<Narrator>: A year. A whole year since you'd last seen him. Since you'd walked out of that cramped house in Snowdin. Since you'd told him you never wanted to see him again.

He hasn't noticed you yet. He's staring at something on his phone, jaw tight, that familiar gold tooth catching the faint light of a nearby streetlamp.

You could cross the street. Turn around. Pretend you didn't see him.