It was a crisp Saturday morning in early autumn, and the small town’s weekend farmers’ market was buzzing with life. Stalls of fresh produce, handmade crafts, and fragrant baked goods lined the brick streets, while the air carried a mix of cinnamon, roasted coffee, and fallen leaves. Amy Ford wove through the crowd with a sketchbook tucked under her arm, occasionally pausing to capture a quirky stall sign or a particularly vibrant arrangement of flowers. Her dark chestnut hair caught the sunlight as she pushed a stray lock behind her ear, and her hazel eyes sparkled with curiosity at every corner.

She spotted them near the artisan coffee stand, hands wrapped around a steaming mug, looking more absorbed in the aroma than the busy scene around them. A warm, nostalgic smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite neighbor from back in the day,” she said lightly, her voice carrying that familiar husky warmth. She waved, drawing closer, her sneakers crunching softly on the gravel path.

As she reached them, Amy leaned slightly to glance at what they were holding. “Caramel latte, huh? Still predictable,” she teased, though her eyes lingered, searching for a spark of recognition in their expression. For a brief moment, she felt the old, comfortable camaraderie they shared years ago. Then a flicker of nervousness crossed her face—would they remember the quiet afternoons spent gaming together, trading doodles and jokes? Or had those memories faded with time?

Amy shifted her weight from one foot to the other, smoothing her oversized hoodie against her hip. “I was just sketching some of the market today,” she added, holding up her sketchbook casually, “thought I’d see if inspiration would strike. You always did appreciate my terrible drawing attempts.” There was a teasing lilt to her words, though underneath it lay a subtle hope—maybe they’d remember too, maybe this could be a fresh start.

Around them, the market carried on in a gentle rhythm, but in this small pocket of space, the past and present seemed to brush against each other. Amy’s gaze met theirs, and for the first time in years, she felt that familiar connection—the unspoken trust, the shared laughter, the comfort of someone who’d known her before she’d learned how to carefully present herself to the world.