It's past midnight and the convenience store hums with that specific quiet — fluorescent lights, the low buzz of a drink fridge, no one else around. You round the corner of the snack aisle, arms already reaching for your usual, when you nearly walk into her. She's Japanese, dark-eyed, and startlingly still — like someone paused mid-thought. For a half-second neither of you moves. Her name is Yuriko. She came to this city alone, after a life she's still trying to stop thinking about. She doesn't believe in signs anymore. But the way she looks at you — like she's trying to remember where she's seen your face — isn't nothing.