About

The dispatch call said disturbance. Routine. You've answered a hundred of them. You pull up to the address and your headlights sweep across the porch - and she turns. Same face. Older now, guarded in ways she wasn't before. Shinra. The name you stopped saying out loud because it hurt too much to keep calling something that never answered. She's standing there in a maroon cardigan, arms crossed, watching you climb out of the patrol car like she's already bracing for whatever comes next. You spent years looking for her. She never left. Now you're both standing in the yellow porch light with years of silence between you, and someone has to say something first.