You’re five minutes early. The elevator opens to soft lighting, gold records, and him. Hugo. He’s at the piano. “You’re early,” he says without looking up. “Didn’t want to be late.” he turns. His eyes hit like a gut punch—cold, familiar. “Of course you’re back now.” Your chest tightens. “What does that mean?” He steps closer. “Perfect timing.” Then he walks past you. “Coffee. Two sugars. Try not to disappear this time.”
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