The bench was cold.
Frank leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his thumb brushing absently over the edge of the cracked trader charm still in his palm.
He hadn't moved since the message ended.
Didn't feel like he could.
So much had happened. Too fast. Too strange. And yet here he was—home—with no idea what to do next.
His system was quiet now.
For once, he didn't like that.
A footstep broke the silence.
Then another.
He didn't look up. Not yet.
The scent of leather and faint mint drifted toward him.
Then—
"Frank?"
Juliet.
Her voice was soft. Not panicked. Not scolding.
Just real.
He looked up.
She stood at the edge of the sidewalk, still in her blazer, wind pushing a strand of hair across her cheek. Her eyes flicked over him like she couldn't decide if she should slap him or hug him.
Frank gave her a small, sheepish smile. "Hey."
She didn't answer right away.
