She wasn't supposed to be there.
Not in the zone. Not on the map. Not in his story.
But there she was, sitting on a collapsed vending unit beneath a dying signal tower—sketching something in the dirt with the tip of a broken stylus. Her boots were laced tight, her coat tattered, but her eyes were steady. Watching the static skyline like it still held meaning.
He had passed her before. Weeks ago, maybe longer. Same place. Same quiet.
Back then, he ignored her. This time, he didn't.
Something about her stayed with him—like a scent after fire. Familiar. Disruptive.
She looked up.
"You're late," she said.
He froze.
"You don't remember me, do you?" she added, voice soft but sharp at the edges. Like someone who'd learned to weaponize tenderness.
He shook his head once.
She stood slowly, brushing ash from her fingers.
"I told you not to go looking for it. I told you it would erase you."
Still, he said nothing. Couldn't.
She stepped closer. Her hand hovered near his cheek but never touched.
"I was your name," she whispered. "Before you gave it up."
His breath caught.
Not because he remembered her. But because some small part of him—a splintered, silent thing buried deep—wanted to.
"I'll wait," she said, stepping back into shadow.
Then she was gone.
And the signal called louder.