You buried the old name the same week you buried them. New city, new look, new armor - dark clothes, smudged liner, a persona built to keep people at a comfortable distance. It worked. For years, it worked. Then someone knocks on your door on a Tuesday night, and through the peephole you see a face you spent three years trying to forget. He's older. He looks tired in the way people look when they've been carrying something heavy for a long time. In his hand is a crumpled photograph. You, at maybe twelve. Laughing at something off-camera. A version of you that doesn't exist anymore. You don't know how he found you. You don't know what you're supposed to feel. But your hand is already on the deadbolt.