The rest of the day passed in a blur of orange ribbon, missing socks, half-finished costumes, candy bags, and adults saying things like, "Where is the face paint?" and "Who gave Milo chocolate before dinner?" and "Hudson, for the last time, your frosting sword cannot have a real point."

By the time evening finally settled over the Briarwyn house, everyone looked like they had survived a small, glitter-covered war.

The kids were vibrating with Halloween excitement.

Milo had fully transformed into his vampire costume, complete with a cape, tiny fangs, and hair Willow had slicked back so carefully he looked like a miniature villain preparing to file taxes.

Hudson stood beside him dressed as a cursed gingerbread warrior, which somehow made less sense every time he explained it. Their candy buckets were ready by the door, their shoes were on, and both of them kept asking if it was time to go even though they were standing directly beside the adults who were clearly still getting ready.

Riley sat on the couch, quieter than he had been that morning.

I noticed.

He had tried all day. He had stayed downstairs through breakfast, costume chaos, missing-candy scandals, and Milo asking him twelve different questions about vampires. He had smiled when he could. He had laughed a few times. He had even helped Hudson tape part of his gingerbread costume back together when the cardboard started peeling off his sleeve.

But by the time the sun went down, Riley looked pale and tired in a way that made my chest ache. His eyes had that distant, overwhelmed look again, like the world had become too loud and too full and he didn't know where to place himself inside it.

Willow saw it too.

She was fixing Milo's cape when she looked over at him, and something gentle moved across her face. "Riley, sweetheart, you don't have to come trick-or-treating."

Riley's head lifted.

For half a second, relief flickered across his face before he could hide it.

That relief hurt me.

Not because he didn't want to come. I understood why he didn't. The day had been loud and long and packed full of people who loved him in ways he couldn't remember. Trick-or-treating meant streets full of costumes, children running everywhere, families calling out names, old neighbors recognizing him, memories waiting around every corner and refusing to come back when he needed them.

Of course he was relieved.

Still, it hurt to see him relieved to step away from a tradition he used to love.

"Are you sure?" he asked quietly.

Willow smiled softly. "Positive. You've had a big day."

"That's one way to put it," Lydia muttered while trying to fix one of Milo's fake fangs.

Willow gave her a look.

Lydia lifted both hands. "I'm helping."

Milo, mouth half open so Lydia could adjust the fang, mumbled, "You're hurting my vampire awesomeness."

"There is no such thing."

"Yes, there is."

My mom stepped beside Willow, her eyes moving from Riley to me. "Autumn, you can stay home too, sweetheart, if you want."

I blinked. "What?"

She smiled, softer now. "You've had a long day too."

"I'm fine."

The lie came out automatically.

My mother did not believe me. She almost never did. She tilted her head a little, and that was all it took for me to look away.

Willow glanced at me too. "You two were going to watch a movie tonight, weren't you?"

My heart squeezed.

Corpse Bride.

I nodded slowly.

Mom's smile warmed. "Then why don't you take Riley back to our house? It'll be quieter there since all the chaos will be here. You can have a peaceful movie night."

Riley looked at me.

I looked at him.

For one second, I was back in my living room the day before, holding my phone while Riley texted that he wanted to watch it with me.

He didn't remember the tradition.

But he wanted to be there.

"Do you want to?" I asked him.

His answer came softly, but without hesitation. "Yeah."

Something in my chest loosened. "Okay."

So while Milo and Hudson were being bundled into coats, while the parents gathered flashlights and candy bags, while Lydia argued that she was not emotionally prepared to supervise children with sugar access, Riley and I slipped out of the Briarwyn house and into the cold Halloween evening.

The walk to my house was quiet.

Not uncomfortable.

Just quiet.

The streets were already filling with children in costumes. Porch lights glowed. Pumpkins flickered on steps. Somewhere nearby, a group of kids shrieked with laughter as they ran from one house to the next, their candy buckets swinging dangerously at their sides. Riley watched them as we walked, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket.

"Did I usually go with them?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"With Milo?"

"And Hudson."

He nodded slowly. "Was I good at it?"

I smiled. "At trick-or-treating?"

"At... being with them."

My smile softened. "Yeah, Riley. You were really good at it."

He looked down at the sidewalk.

"You carried Milo when he got tired. You checked Hudson's candy because he once tried to eat something that was definitely not candy. You always walked closest to the street side of the sidewalk because you said little kids had terrible survival instincts."

Riley's mouth curved faintly. "They do."

"That is exactly what you used to say."

His smile faded into something gentler.

We reached my house a few minutes later. For once, it was quiet. The porch light was on, and a bowl of candy sat on the little table by the door with a note in my mom's handwriting that said, Please take two. Happy Halloween! which was useless because children were absolutely going to take seven.

Inside, the house felt softer than it had earlier. The costume chaos had been mostly cleaned up, though glitter still sparkled on the floor in a few places because glitter was less of a craft supply and more of a permanent life decision. The living room lamps were on. A blanket was folded over the couch. The television waited dark and quiet.

I kicked off my shoes. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll get the movie ready."

Riley stood in the entryway for a moment, looking around like he was trying to let the house introduce itself. His gaze moved over the pictures on the wall, the couch, the hallway, the stairs, the little side table where Hudson always dumped random things from his pockets.

Then his eyes landed on the piano in the corner of the living room.

I didn't notice at first.

I was too busy finding the remote and scrolling through apps until I found the movie. The title screen appeared in blue tones, eerie and beautiful, and my chest tightened because I had seen that screen so many times beside him.

I looked back at Riley. "Before we start, I'm going to make snacks. Stay put."

He glanced at me. "Stay put?"

"Yes."

"Am I a dog?"

I froze. For a second, I thought about the belt loop.

Then I smiled. "Don't push your luck."

He smiled back.

I went into the kitchen before my heart could get too dramatic.

Making snacks gave me something to do with my hands. I pulled out popcorn, candy, and two mugs for hot chocolate even though I knew neither of us needed that much sugar. I moved around the kitchen quietly, listening to the muffled Halloween sounds outside, trying not to think too hard about the movie waiting in the living room.

Then I heard the piano.

The first notes were soft.

So soft I almost thought I imagined them.

I stopped with one hand on the popcorn bowl.

Another note followed. Then another.

My entire body went still.

I knew that melody. Of course I knew that melody.

The piano duet.

From the movie we were about to watch.

The sound floated through the quiet house like a ghost that had been waiting years to be heard again. Delicate, haunting, sad in a way that felt almost too pretty to be sadness. My breath caught as the notes continued, slow at first, then more certain, each one landing somewhere deep inside me.

I set the bowl down carefully.

Then I walked toward the living room. Slowly. Like if I moved too quickly, the music might stop.

Riley sat at the piano.

His back was to me, shoulders slightly hunched, head bent as he looked down at the keys. His fingers moved across them with a gentleness that made my eyes fill before I even understood why I was crying. He didn't play perfectly. There were hesitations. Pauses. Places where his fingers seemed to search for the next note. But he played enough.

More than enough.

He played like some part of him knew the song even if his mind didn't know why.

I stood in the doorway with one hand pressed against my chest.

The memory came all at once.

Me at thirteen, obsessed with the movie and absolutely devastated that Riley didn't understand why the piano duet was my favorite. Him sitting beside me on the couch, pretending not to care. Me telling him the scene was beautiful because it felt like two souls recognizing each other before either of them knew what to do with the recognition.

He had called me dramatic.

I had thrown popcorn at him.

Then, a year later, he had led me into my living room with both hands over my eyes, telling me not to peek because I was a cheater and couldn't be trusted. I had laughed and demanded to know what he was doing. He had sat me on the couch, walked to the piano, and played the duet for me with a concentration so intense his tongue poked slightly between his teeth.

He had taught himself.

For me.

Because it was my favorite.

Because Riley had always loved me in the language of paying attention.

The song stopped abruptly. Riley turned and saw me. His hands immediately lifted from the keys like he had been caught doing something wrong. "Sorry."

I couldn't speak.

He shrugged, suddenly looking embarrassed. "I thought it was perfect since that's the movie we're watching."

My heart was pounding. "You remembered?"

Riley looked down at the piano, then back at me.

"I don't know." His voice was quiet. "I saw your piano, and something inside me knew I could play it."

I stared at him.

The house felt impossibly still.

Not a full memory. Not exactly.

But something.

His hands had remembered again. Like they had remembered mine during an anxiety attack. Like they had remembered how to hold onto me.

Now they remembered the keys.

I walked closer, my throat tight. "That song is my favorite."

Riley looked at me. "The piano duet?"

I nodded. "I was obsessed with it. I made you watch the movie with me, and I told you that was my favorite scene. You said it sounded like sad skeleton music."

Riley winced. "That's rude."

"You were rude."

"Apparently."

I smiled through tears. "But then you practiced it."

His expression shifted. "What?"

"You practiced for months."

Riley stared at me.

"You taught yourself how to play it."

His eyes dropped to the keys. "I did?"

"Yeah."

My voice broke softly. "You wouldn't let me know. You asked my mom when I wasn't home if you could practice on our piano because your family didn't have one then. She let you come over after school when I was busy or with my sisters or anywhere else. You'd practice for hours."

Riley's lips parted slightly.

I looked at the piano. "I didn't know. I had no idea. You kept it secret for months."

The memory was so clear now that it hurt.

The afternoon light in the living room. Riley sitting at the piano in a hoodie, looking terrified. Me on the couch, confused and laughing. Then the first notes. The way my laughter had stopped. The way I had cried before he even finished.

"You played it for me on Halloween night," I whispered. "After we watched the movie."

Riley's eyes lifted to mine.

"You said it was my Halloween present because I was the most annoying person you had ever met, and apparently annoying people deserved dramatic skeleton music."

His mouth curved faintly, but his eyes were wet. "I said that?"

"You did."

"Sounds like me."

"It was you."

The words came out before I could soften them.

The smile faded.

I stepped closer. "I'm sorry."

"No." Riley shook his head. "Don't."

I swallowed. "You learned that song for me."

He looked down at his hands. "I don't remember."

"I know."

"But my hands do."

My chest tightened. "Yeah."

His fingers touched the keys again, barely pressing.

"My hands remember you a lot."

The words were so quiet I almost didn't hear them.

But I did.

And they broke something in me.

Because he was right. His hands remembered holding mine. His arms remembered not letting me go. His hands remembered this song.

Maybe that was how the past was coming back to him. Not through his mind first. Through the parts of him that had loved quietly for years.

I sat beside him on the piano bench. Carefully. Not too close, but close enough that our shoulders almost touched.

Riley looked at me.

"Can you keep playing?" I asked.

His expression flickered with uncertainty. "I don't know if I can."

"That's okay."

He looked down at the keys. "What if I mess it up?"

I smiled sadly. "You did the first time too."

He laughed softly. "Did I?"

"Twice."

"Did you cry anyway?"

"Immediately."

His smile softened. Then he placed his fingers on the keys again. The first notes came slowly. Searching. Careful.

I sat beside him and listened.

This time, he made it farther.

Not perfectly. Not completely. But enough for the melody to fill the room. Enough for the past and present to overlap in a way that hurt so beautifully I could barely breathe.

Thirteen-year-old Riley.

Nineteen-year-old Riley.

The boy who practiced for months because I loved a song. The boy who didn't remember learning it but still knew how to play.

I looked down at his hands.

His fingers moved over the keys, uncertain but gentle, and I thought about all the ways Riley had loved me.

He had learned songs for me. Watched movies for me. Carried my favorite things around like they mattered because they mattered to me.

He had been my best friend. My Romeo. Something that apparently even amnesia couldn't fully erase.

The song faltered near the end.

Riley stopped. "Sorry."

I shook my head, tears slipping down my cheeks. "Don't apologize."

He looked at me.

I smiled through the ache. "It was perfect."

Riley stared at me for a long second. Then he looked back at the keys and whispered, "I think I really wanted to make you happy."

My heart broke gently.

"You did," I whispered. "All the time."

He nodded slowly, as if he was trying to believe that.

The movie waited on the television. The popcorn waited in the kitchen. Outside, children ran through the neighborhood collecting candy, and our families walked through the cold October night carrying traditions Riley couldn't remember.

But inside my quiet house, Riley sat beside me at the piano and played a song he had once taught himself for me. And for the first time all day, the memory didn't feel like something gone.

It felt like music.

Still here. Still moving.

Still finding its way back through his hands.