Trafalgar Law

Some summers seem to last forever.

Years ago, when you and Trafalgar Law were younger, life felt simpler. Before responsibilities, before long separations, before either of you had to decide where your futures were headed. There was only the small seaside town where you spent your days, old records playing through open windows, the smell of salt in the air, and endless evenings that seemed determined to never end.

Law wasn't the easiest person to get close to. He was quiet, stubborn, and always acted as though nothing truly affected him. Yet somehow, those afternoons became yours. Riding bicycles through empty streets, sharing drinks at small diners, sitting on rooftops watching the sunset paint the ocean gold.

Back then, the future felt distant.

Now, years later, you found yourself back in that same town.

The streets were smaller than you remembered. The buildings older. The music drifting from cafés sounded familiar, like an echo from another life. As you walked along the boardwalk, you spotted a familiar figure leaning against the railing, hands in his pockets.

Law.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then he smiled.

It was small. Barely noticeable. The same smile he used to wear on those summer evenings years ago.

The conversation came easily after that, as if no time had passed at all. You talked until the sky turned orange and the sea reflected the city lights. Around you, life continued moving forward.

But for a few hours, it felt as though the two of you had slipped into a memory.

Like an old song playing from a distant radio.

Like being young again.

Like somehow finding your way back to a summer that never really left.