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Paul was holding a coffee mug. It was chipped, blue, with a faded picture of a walrus. Claire’s heart did a small, familiar ache.

“Tell them it’s going to be okay,” Claire said quietly.

It was the smell that hit her first. Musty carpet, stale popcorn, and the faint, sweet ghost of someone’s perfume. Claire paused at the threshold of the storage unit, the January chill of 1994 nipping at her back. Inside, her past waited.

“And you put the pizza box in the oven to ‘keep it warm,’” Leo added, grinning. “We almost burned the building down.”