Buck pushes the boarding house door open and steps inside.
Conversation dies.
Not all at once. One voice cuts off mid-sentence. A spoon stops halfway to a mouth. Someone laughs once, uncertain, then realizes no one else is laughing and lets it trail away.
Every eye in the common room turns to him.
Buck feels it like a temperature change.
Maeve is the first to speak.
“…Jesus,” she says softly.
Someone near the window makes the sign of the cross.
Buck clears his throat. “Evening.”
That does it.
“What in God’s name—”
“You look—”
“That’s him, isn’t it?”
“I thought you were dead.”
Maeve steps forward slowly, eyes searching his face like she expects it to rearrange itself if she stares hard enough.
“You,” she says carefully, “haven’t changed.”
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Buck spreads his hands. “I get that a lot.”
“No, you don’t,” she snaps, then stops herself. Her voice lowers. “You were gone a year.”
The room murmurs. Buck catches fragments.
—ran off before Low Tide could—
—figured they caught him—
—Hudson gets men like that—
Buck swallows.
Low Tide.
The name still carries weight here, a thing said like you might check the waterline afterward.
He learned the story later, in pieces. How the man earned it.
Low Tide didn’t rush. He didn’t rage. He waited.
Men who crossed him didn’t always disappear outright. Sometimes they were tied to pilings along the Hudson’s edge, left just high enough that the tide would cover them slowly. Not enough to drown them quickly. Enough to let them understand what was coming.
At low tide, the river gave them back. At high tide, it took them again.
People said Low Tide liked to walk the shore while he waited, boots dry, watching the water decide.
Buck meets Maeve’s eyes. “I had to leave.”
She studies him for a long moment, then nods once. “That tracks.”
Her gaze sharpens. “You bring trouble back with you.”
“Not on purpose.”
She snorts. “That’s worse.”
Maeve gestures toward the back. “Your things are still here. Boxed up in the cellar. I didn’t touch them.”
Buck blinks. “You kept them.”
“I’ve hidden worse than shirts and stones,” she says. “That room’s seen its share of ghosts.”
She lowers her voice. “Runaways. South of here. Before the Guard started sniffing around. You can stay there, if you want. Out of sight.”
Buck nods slowly. “Thank you.”
He’s about to say more when something hits him at waist height.
Arms wrap around him with absolute certainty.
“I knew you weren’t dead!”
Buck looks down.
Elysia.
She’s taller. Not by much, but enough that it lands wrong in his chest. Her hair is longer. Her face sharper around the edges.
She pulls back and squints at him. “You look the same.”
Buck smiles carefully. “You look… different.”
She beams. “Mama says I’m growing. She says I’m nearly eight now.”
Buck’s smile freezes for half a heartbeat.
Elysia doesn’t notice.
“You left,” she says, accusatory but not angry. “Everyone said you ran.”
“I took a ship,” Buck says quickly. “Signed on fast. Needed the money.”
“That’s stupid,” she says cheerfully.
Maeve watches the exchange with narrowed eyes.
“You come back alone,” she says. “No ship scars. No sailor’s hands.”
Buck shrugs. “Short voyage.”
Maeve doesn’t call him on it.
Instead, she sighs and gestures toward the back. “We’ll talk later. Quietly.”
Elysia takes Buck’s hand like it’s always belonged there.
“You missed so much,” she says. “I’ll tell you everything.”
Buck lets her pull him along.
Behind his eyes, B.U.C.K. is very quiet.
You did well, the AI says finally. Minimal disruption. Plausible lie.
“Maeve knows,” Buck murmurs.
She knows you’re not dangerous, B.U.C.K. replies. That’s enough for now.
Buck glances around the room, at the familiar walls that now feel subtly wrong, like a place remembered instead of visited.
Elysia looks up at him again, head tilted.
“It’s funny,” she says. “I thought you’d be old.”
Buck squeezes her hand gently.
“So did I.”
