After a little time to get his room resettled, he heads back upstairs. As he moves through the house, he takes inventory the way he always does. The new windows upstairs catch the light instead of swallowing it. The back step has been replaced with solid wood. The common room feels warmer, not because of the fire, but because people linger now. They stay. They talk.

  She reinvested aggressively, B.U.C.K. notes.

  “She get’s shit done,” Buck murmurs.

  Later, when the house settles into its midday lull, Maeve finally sits across from him at the scarred table near the window. A ledger lies open between them, pages worn soft by use.

  “I didn’t just patch things,” she says before he can ask. “I fixed them. People pay more when they don’t feel like the roof’s waiting to fall in on them.”

  Buck nods. “And they did I assume.”

  Maeve taps the ledger. “Enough that your share is four times what you invested, plus the interest.”

  She pauses, then looks up at him sharply.

  Buck lets himself breathe. “Good.”

  Maeve studies him. “You don’t look surprised.”

  “I hoped,” Buck says. “I don’t assume.”

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  She snorts. “You assume plenty. You just don’t announce it.”

  She slides a stack of coins across the table, all larger denomination mostly silver with a few gold as well. Solid. Heavy.

  “That’s your cut,” she says. “Annual. Accrued. You come back again, we talk about expanding.”

  Buck closes his hand around the coins. “Thank you.”

  Maeve waves it off. “You took a risk on this place. That counts for something, counts for a lot with me.”

  It counts more than she knows.

  By late afternoon, Buck is in the market, selling some of what he bought the year before and secreted out of the time locker when no one was paying attention. The goods move faster than expected. Prices are higher. Demand sharper. One buyer offers more than Buck asks without haggling.

  Statistically unlikely, B.U.C.K. observes.

  Buck glances skyward. “You think time’s tipping the scales for me?”

  I think alignment sometimes looks a lot like luck, the AI replies.

  When Buck finishes, he counts the coins twice. More than enough to cover the loan principal and interest outright. Enough left over to make the risk worthwhile.

  Satisfied, he heads for the moneylender’s office.

  The building hasn’t changed. The door still sticks. The smell of ink and stale tobacco lingers like a warning.

  The man behind the desk is not the one Buck remembers.

  This one is sharper. Better dressed. His smile is practiced, not lazy.

  Buck sets the papers and coins on the desk. “I’m here to settle.”

  The man scans the documents, nods once, then flips to the back.

  “Oh,” he says mildly. “This note’s been sold.”

  Buck stills. “Sold.”

  “Yes,” the man says. “Debt changes hands a lot in this city.”

  He turns the ledger around and taps the name written there.

  Low Tide.

  Buck feels the weight of it immediately, like a change in pressure.

  “That’s not who I borrowed from,” Buck says.

  “No,” the man agrees. “But it’s who owns your debt now.”

  Buck keeps his voice even. “Then I’d like to pay it off.”

  The man smiles thinly. “That will require… a conversation.”

  Buck straightens. “With him.”

  “Yes.”

  Buck gestures to the neat stacks of coins, leaving them untouched on the desk. “Then I’ll wait.”

  The man shrugs. “I wouldn’t wait here, there is nothing I can do for you.”

  Buck stares at the man, then gathers his coins turns abruptly and walks out.

  Outside, the street feels louder. Somehow narrower than it was when he entered just a few minutes ago.

  That wasn’t a coincidence, B.U.C.K. says quietly.

  “No,” Buck replies. “That was friction.”

  He heads back toward the boarding house, already adjusting his plans.

  Low Tide didn’t forget about him. And time, for once since his return, doesn’t feel like it’s smoothing the way. It feels like it’s watching to see what Buck does next.