No respite, and definitely no reform.
| Played | 10 times |
| Cloned | 3 times |
| Created | 18 days ago |
| Last Updated | 14 days ago |
| Visibility | Public |
Returned
They left, and now they’re back. Maybe it was years. Maybe less. Either way, people remember who they were—and expect them to be it again. There’s curiosity, some warmth, and a quiet resistance. Things have changed, and so have they, but no one says that out loud. Old patterns wait in familiar places. Some doors open easy. Others stay locked. Coming home isn’t the same as being welcomed.
Echo
They remind people of someone else. A face, a gesture, a way of standing that pulls old feelings to the surface. No one says it directly, but the comparison hangs there—unspoken, constant. They inherit reactions they didn’t earn. Kindness, hesitation, distrust—it all comes from memory, not fact. They learn to navigate shadows that aren’t theirs. In a place like Rochester, resemblance is never just coincidence.
Placeholder
They’re easy to miss. Always around, always helpful, never quite central. People know their name but not their story. They fill gaps—shift schedules, cover shifts, show up where they’re needed. It’s not disrespect. It’s comfort. They don’t stir things up. They don’t make demands. They’re part of the background, steady and convenient. And if they disappeared tomorrow, most people wouldn’t notice right away.
Stained
Something followed them. A last name, a headline, a rumor that never quite settled. It doesn’t matter if it’s true. People remember the version that stuck. Conversations shift when they enter. Eyes linger longer than they should. Forgiveness might be possible, but forgetting isn’t. The details blur over time, but the weight doesn’t. In Rochester, being tied to the wrong moment means carrying it for the rest of the story.
Bloom
They arrived after everything was already in motion. The town was set in its ways, and they weren’t part of it. Not then. Maybe not now. People are polite, curious, occasionally suspicious. They notice when routines shift, and somehow it’s always traced back to the new one. The Bloom didn’t ask to represent change—but they do. Just by showing up, they remind others that time moves, even here.
Rooted
They’ve always been here. Their name sits in old minutes, fading rosters, carved initials on trees that don’t stand anymore. People know their parents, remember their house, still recall something they said ten years ago. Expectations cling to them, fair or not. They don’t get a clean slate. Every choice is part of a longer pattern. In Rochester, their past isn’t behind them—it’s all around, carried in other people’s memory.