Taking the short stroll down Leppings Lane towards Hillsborough, the streets were tainted by the scent of chip-shop grease, cheap lager and pyrotechnic flares.
The beaming green of the pitch, the echoes of a middle-aged man belting out terrace chants — the little things, which fans didn't know they missed, were back.
And as the players took to the turf, it all felt normal. As if the loud-and-proud Wednesday faithful had never been away.
But then reality struck. This is no longer a team making an annual push for Premier League promotion. It's a football club in England's third tier, with a sorry state of affairs behind the scenes.