They sat on the floor, leaning against boxes. The radiator in the storage unit didn’t leak, but the cold seeped through the walls. They passed the bottle. The whiskey burned, just like it used to.

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

“We ordered pizza,” Claire whispered, the memory rushing back. The cramped apartment with the leaky radiator, the windows that fogged up so the city outside looked like a watercolor. The four of them, sprawled on this very floor, eating greasy slices and arguing about the best Springsteen album.

“What would we tell them?” Leo asked, staring at the photograph. “The twenty-two-year-old versions of us?”

They worked in comfortable silence, punctuated by discoveries: a deck of cards with the queen of spades missing, a half-burned candle that smelled like cinnamon and regret, a photograph taped to the inside of a cabinet door. The four of them, arms around each other, faces flushed with laughter and cheap wine. Someone had written on the back in smudged pen: “Spring, 1994. We will never be this young again.”

They did and they didn’t. Maggie was tugging at a lumpy sofa, her red hair now a sensible bob, her freckles faded. Leo, who’d once sworn he’d die in this very apartment, was carefully wrapping his vintage guitar in bubble wrap. He’d sold his first song last year—a jingle for a breakfast cereal. And then there was Paul.

The last Thursday was still a raw spot. July 1994. Maggie had gotten a fellowship in Chicago. Leo’s band had broken up, and he was moving back to Ohio. Paul had an offer to shoot for a small paper in Portland. And Claire? Claire had just been promoted to junior editor. She was staying.

They’d been a strange quartet. Maggie, the aspiring playwright who could talk her way out of a parking ticket. Leo, the musician who composed symphonies for the subway’s screeching brakes. Paul, the quiet one, the photographer who saw stories in cracks on the sidewalk. And Claire, who wanted to be a novelist but spent most nights editing other people’s grocery lists at a publishing house.