Sparky dragged one foot, then the other, toward the broken archway at the edge of the empty park. Their left arm jerked sideways, knocking against a rusted post. They flinched, but kept moving. Somewhere past the dead bulbs, someone might still know how to fix them. Sparky did not remember the someone's face. Only the shape of a promise. The wind pushed dust across the cracked path. Sparky stepped under the arch and tried to hold the thought steady. The world dropped out. When Sparky came back, they were standing in front of an old repair shed. Vines crawled over the rusted panels. A round blue window stared down like an eye. Sparky's good hand was clenched tight. Inside it sat a small, faded ticket stub. They did not remember picking it up. They did not remember walking here. The promise in their chest shifted, sharper now, pointing at the closed door.