Tuesday Evening – B&G Storefront, Downtown Brooklyn
The bell above the door jingled with a sharp, antique chime.
B&G General didn't believe in modernity. It wore its dust like a badge—long wooden shelves, tin-can registers, and faded posters of cigarettes that hadn't been legal in a decade. The place sold everything from imported colognes to overpriced notebooks, but more than that, it sold ambience. Arrogant ambience.
Ethan Vale stood behind the counter in a plain black apron, sleeves rolled just enough to breathe. He had just restocked the amber-toned perfumes when the shop owner, Mr. Grendel—a man with a cane, overfed ego, and an Oxford accent no one believed—grunted from the back desk.
"You're folding too neatly, Vale. This isn't a boutique in Milan."
Ethan didn't reply. He just folded slower.
The evening outside was painted in dusky gold, traffic gliding by, and then—
Another chime.
Ethan didn't glance up, not immediately. But he felt the air shift.
She stepped in like the world was background music.
Sienna.
Same hazel eyes. Dark brown curls, now tied in a loose half-knot that framed her cheeks like a memory.
She was in a beige long coat, slightly oversized, the kind someone wears to feel protected in cities that don't care. She wasn't smiling. But her gaze was soft—and it landed right on him.
Ethan raised his eyes only when she was three steps from the counter.
"Sienna," he said quietly. Not surprised. Not cold either. Just there. Present.
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and exhaled, like she'd been waiting for this breath all day.
"I didn't know you worked here," she said, voice feather-light. "I came to get something for my dad… ended up walking."
Ethan simply nodded, placing the last cologne back in line.
Grendel looked up from the back desk, monocle hanging from one eye like a prop. He squinted—first at Ethan, then at her. The tilt of his brow suggested mild shock, as if he couldn't fathom someone like her speaking that gently to someone like him.
Sienna continued, her voice steady now.
"You've changed," she said, looking at him fully now. "The way you stand. The way you… don't flinch."
Ethan met her gaze. There was no wall between them. Just unlit ground.
"Change happens," he said. "If you let silence do the work."
A quiet smile flickered at her lips. "Still poetic," she murmured. "Still hard to read."
He didn't smile back. But he didn't look away.
For a moment, nothing moved. Not even Grendel, who was watching them with an odd mix of suspicion and reluctant fascination.
Sienna stepped closer, placing a small glass bottle of body mist on the counter. Lavender, with notes of fig.
"It's strange," she said softly, almost just for him. "How some people take space in your life… and never leave it. Even when they're gone."
Ethan scanned the bottle, keyed in the code. His voice was low.
"Some people leave without ever leaving."
She took the receipt, their hands not touching but close. Too close.
And then she stepped back.
"I won't ask you for anything, Ethan," she said, more firmly now. "But I'll be here… if you ever choose to be."
With that, she turned—quiet as she'd come—and walked out into the Brooklyn night.
Grendel watched her go, then tilted his head toward Ethan with a faint scoff.
"She was far too lovely to waste her time on a shopboy."
Ethan stared at the door.
"She wasn't wasting it," he replied. "She was remembering."
And he returned to his folding. Silent again. Composed.
But somewhere in the chest where he'd locked away his past, something stirred. Not loudly.
Just enough to remind him it still lived.