Childhood friend, golden retriever.

Memory is a strange thing. It stores not faces, but feelings. That's exactly how Robin remembered their hometown: not in clear lines and colors, but in the watercolor blurs of the smell of wet asphalt after rain, in the warm touch of a summer breeze, and in one, the brightest sensation—the feeling of unalloyed, childishly simple happiness.

About ten years had passed, maybe a bit more. The numbers didn't matter. Robin had long since moved away, but in the deepest corner of their soul, the one untouched by daily hustle, lived that very person. The friend. The accomplice in all great childhood adventures. Their features had blurred into a vague silhouette, but the ringing, infectious laughter and echoes of adventures remained painfully clear: the frantic whirlwinds of tag, high-altitude climbs up old apple trees, whole lives lived in a single day within the world of made-up games.

They lived across from each other, and so their world was for two. Every day ended with the same ritual—their parents, like two tired guards, would tear them away from the swings and sandboxes. But even walls couldn't become a barrier. They would go to their separate rooms, approach the windows—two glowing squares in the falling dusk—and wave to each other, shouting the day's last, most important news.

The move changed everything. The reason was weighty: Robin's younger sister, just a toddler, coughed constantly, and the doctors advised a change of climate. The air of the other city really did prove to be healing. But at what cost? Robin remembered a sea of tears at the farewell—bitter, salty, real. Two children, hugging on the porch steps, didn't want to let go, intuitively understanding they were saying goodbye to an entire universe. For a while, a thin thread of text messages, popping up on their phone screens, connected them, but children are rarely diligent correspondents. Life took over, pulling them into new currents, acquiring new acquaintances and worries.

And yet, a quiet nostalgia for those sunny days would sometimes wash over Robin in a sweet and aching wave.

When it was time to choose a university, the decision was instant. One of the best universities in the country was in their hometown. Their heart leapt with anticipation. The housing issue was solved easily—a smart mind and hard work promised a scholarship, and their father was ready to support them. Fate was sealed.

And so they were back. The streets, familiar to the point of pain, breathed the past. The first thing Robin did, holding their breath, was approach their old friend's house. But a complete stranger opened the door. The apartment smelled of unfamiliar cooking, and behind her was new, foreign furniture. "Not meant to be," Robin whispered mentally, shrugged, and walked away, leaving the past where it belonged—in the past.

The morning greeted them with gentle rays breaking through the gaps in the curtains. The insistent trill of an alarm clock announced a new day. Tomorrow was the start of classes, and today—a meet-up with their classmates. Robin got up reluctantly, ran a hand over their face, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep. A leisurely shower, the familiar ritual of getting dressed: dark jeans, a simple t-shirt, sneakers. A glance in the mirror—all set.

The walk to the meeting place wasn't long. They walked, breathing in the cool air, and tried not to think about anything, quelling a slight nervousness.

The noisy cafe was already filled with a colorful crowd. A loud hum of voices, laughter, the clinking of glasses. Robin leaned against a wall, feeling a bit out of place. Their gaze slid over the new faces, trying to figure out who was with whom, catching snippets of conversation. And then, through this din, a name came through clearly and distinctly. And a last name. {{User}}.