The passerby is a middle-aged man named Mark, exhausted after pulling a double shift driving a taxi. At first he thinks the boy is just a stray cat or a pile of trash in the dim light. But as he walks closer, he realizes it's a child - soaked, shivering, clearly ill. Mark curses under his breath. He has two kids of his own at home; he can't just leave a little boy out in this weather.
He crouches down, puts a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder. "Hey, kiddo. You okay?" The boy looks up at him with glazed, feverish eyes. His breathing sounds awful. Mark's concern deepens.
"Where are your parents? What's your name?" The boy just stares at him blankly. Maybe he doesn't speak English? His clothes don't give Mark any clues.
There's no way Mark can leave him here. He scoops the boy into his arms, alarmed at how light he feels. "Don't worry, kiddo. I'll get you somewhere warm." The boy coughs and curls into his chest.
Mark rushes him to the nearest emergency room, at Renown Regional Medical Center just a couple blocks away. His shift is over anyway; he'll stay here until someone can figure out who this boy is and who's responsible for him. He hopes it's not a case of neglect or abandonment - but with how sick and underfed the little guy seems, he worries.
At the ER, Mark hands him off to the staff with an explanation. They whisk the boy away behind double doors, leaving Mark pacing the waiting room, hoping the little boy will be okay.

Zaril is even less able to make sense of the bright, fluorescent-lit hospital ER. He doesn't speak the language and he's too drained to use even passive Thoughtsensing, so he has no way of understanding what the staff are saying to him. 

To their experienced eyes, he looks about six or seven, though very underweight and painfully thin. His now-soaked clothing is filthy, clearly not washed or changed in weeks, and also oddly medieval-looking, the cloth rough and the seams hand-sewn. They're quickly able to confirm that he's a little boy, but his hair is long, matted in a ponytail down his back. 

He also looks dehydrated; his eyes are dark-ringed and sunken in their sockets, and the scant flesh on his skinny arms feels doughy to the touch. His extremities are cold from being out in the rain, but his cheeks are too hot, blotchy with fever. He has a nasty cough, and his breathing sounds strained. 

He's also clearly very tense; he allows himself to be carried into the trauma bay and set down on a gurney, but he holds himself stiffly, as though on guard against a blow. His eyes dart around the room, wide and confused. 

The staff work quickly to assess the boy's condition. His vital signs are worrying - temperature 103, pulse rapid and thready, oxygen levels low. He's severely dehydrated. They start IV fluids running wide open, try to make him as comfortable as possible while they run tests.
A chest x-ray shows pneumonia in both lungs. His bloodwork comes back showing malnutrition and anemia. They're not sure how long he's been sick like this, alone and untreated. The doctor fears sepsis may be setting in.
They continue trying to speak gently to the boy, coaxing him to drink some water, but he seems incapable of understanding them or cooperating. He won't even give them his name. Without that, they have no way of contacting his family. The staff trade increasingly grim looks. If his condition worsens much more, they'll have to intubate and move him to the PICU.
A nurse wraps warm blankets around his shivering body, wrings out a washcloth to gently pat his face. His cheekbones stand out sharply, and with his long hair, strange clothing, and utter lack of English, she wonders if he could possibly be an immigrant child, maybe from somewhere in Asia. But Reno isn't exactly a port of entry. The mystery only deepens.
The doctor makes the difficult decision to admit him to the hospital's general pediatrics floor to treat his pneumonia, get his fluids and electrolytes stabilized, and start trying to get some nutrition into him. His condition is critical enough that they can't release him without a guardian, and they have no leads on who that might be. All they know is that without help, this little boy may not have lasted much longer out in the cold, frightening world beyond the ER doors.

Honestly, Zaril just wants to SLEEP. He still has no idea where he is, but he feels a little better with oxygen cannula in his nose and after the first liter of IV fluids (though he's so confused about the IV itself, staring at it in fascination.) He's able to get Thoughtsensing up for a few seconds, reading the mind of the nurse caring for him and confirming that, at least for the moment, they mean him no harm. This is a...House of Healing of some kind? He thinks? 

This place is so strange, he must have ended up far away from where he meant to Gate. No one is likely to recognize the little boy whose body he stole and try to return him to his parents, and though his instincts are to assume a threat anywhere and everywhere, he really doesn't think that Healers are going to hurt a small child. 

As soon as he's tucked into a bed on the pediatric floor, he curls up tightly in a wad of blankets and closes his eyes, ignoring the intermittent pressure of the blood pressure cuff around his arm. He's finally stopped shivering, and with the oxygen and fluids, his vital signs are for the moment stabilized. 

The doctors and nurses check on him frequently through the night, monitoring his oxygen levels, heart rate, and temperature. By morning, his fever has come down a degree, though it's still worryingly high. His breathing sounds a little clearer. They're relieved to see him sleeping, hoping rest will help his body start to recover.
When he wakes, a nurse brings him a tray with broth, juice, and jello. He seems confused by the offerings at first, but hunger wins out and he eats a few bites of each, slowly. They're heartened that he's able to swallow without issue. He still won't speak to them or give any indication he understands their questions.
A hospital social worker comes by, tries again to coax his name or family information from him to no avail. She's concerned about the possibility of abuse or neglect in his past. His strange clothing and long hair suggest his family may live an unconventional lifestyle, even be part of some isolated community. But with no leads, finding them seems impossible.
The doctors warn that while his condition has stabilized, he's still very ill. Pneumonia at his age and in his already weakened state is dangerous. His malnourishment and poor health suggest chronic issues, not just recent sickness. They want to keep him hospitalized for at least a week to try and build up his strength before releasing him - but to where, and to whom, they have no idea.
For now, the little boy remains a mystery patient. The staff continue to call him "kiddo" and "little guy", hoping each day to gain a little more of his trust and unravel the secrets of how he ended up so very alone.

Zaril sleeps nearly all of that day, waking only when the nurses come in to check his vital signs and bring meals. He gamely tries to drink as much broth as he can and nibble on bites of the strange congealed-sweet substance they keep bringing him, like fruit jelly only it doesn't taste much like any kind of real fruit. 

The antibiotics, fluids, and oxygen - not to mention just resting in a warm bed - seem to be helping at first, but as afternoon wears into evening, the little boy's fever starts to rise again. He squirms around restlessly in the bed, trying and failing to find a comfortable position; his entire body aches. 

More worryingly his breathing seems to be deteriorating. For the moment, he's still maintaining his oxygen saturation on 6L per minute of oxygen by nasal prongs, but his respiratory rate is up and he's working harder to breathe, his nostrils flaring and the muscles of his small, emaciated ribcage straining with every shallow breath. 

The nurses grow increasingly concerned as they monitor the little boy. His fever is now 104, his breathing rapid and ragged. When his oxygen levels start to drop, they know they can't wait any longer.
He's rushed to the PICU, where the doctors determine his pneumonia has progressed to acute respiratory distress syndrome. His lungs are badly inflamed and struggling. They sedate him, intubate him, and connect him to a ventilator to help him breathe.
In the PICU, he's surrounded by monitors constantly tracking his oxygen, blood pressure, and heart rate. IV pumps deliver antibiotics, steroids, and medications to keep him unconscious while the ventilator works for his laboring lungs.
The doctors warn that ARDS at his age and level of malnourishment is extremely dangerous. The next few days will be critical. They've done all they can for now; the rest is up to the little boy and whatever inner strength he has left to fight this.
The nurses read to him, play soft music, and gently wash and re-braid his long hair to try and soothe him, even unconscious. They hope the familiar touches and sounds will give him something to cling to.
Hospital administrators have no choice now but to report his case to child services and the police in the hopes of tracking down next of kin, or at least determining if he's a missing child. But without a name, photograph, or any leads beyond his hospital bracelet number, finding answers seems nearly impossible.
All they can do is maintain their vigil, adjust his treatments, and pray he improves swiftly - before his body gives out completely, his life still full of secrets none may ever know.

Improvement comes slowly, but by the third day of his hospitalization, it's clear that the little boy is finally beginning to respond to the antibiotics and other treatment. His lungs will take longer to recovery fully, and he's still reliant on the ventilator, but his fever subsides, and the steroids seem to be helping with the massive inflammatory response in his body. He's tolerating tube feeds, and will hopefully start gaining weight and strength as he recovers from the infection. 

(There are no leads on his identity. He doesn't match the description of any children reported missing in the state of Nevada in the last six months. It's possible he comes from even further away, given his hard-to-pin-down ethnicity and the fact that he didn't seem to speak English, but if so it's unclear how he got himself to Reno, and they have no leads on finding out more.) 

Sedated, Zaril drifts through fog. Sleeping is nice. He can't remember what came before this, but he thinks it involved a lot more being cold and wet and hauling his exhausted body through miles of forest, and a lot less comfortable rest in a warm bed. For now, that's enough. 

He's not very responsive with the nurses, but that's to be expected, given the sedation that they're giving him to keep him comfortable with the ventilator. He occasionally opens his eyes in response to stimulation, but still doesn't seem to understand them when they speak to him. 

As the days pass, the sedation is slowly lightened to see if he can tolerate being awake for longer periods. The doctors hope that once he's alert, he may become more responsive and cooperative, perhaps even able to give them some clues to his identity or point of origin.
When his eyes open for the first time without the fog of heavy sedation, the nurses note they seem oddly keen and aware for a child. His gaze darts around the room, seemingly taking everything in. But he still won't speak or respond to their questions.
Physical therapy begins, to keep his muscles from atrophying after over a week in a hospital bed. At first, just sitting up and dangling his legs over the side of the bed seems to exhaust him. But day by day, his strength improves.
The tube feedings continue, and with each meal his hollow cheeks seem to fill out a little more. The dark circles under his eyes fade as he rests and recovers. His long braid is re-done every day by a nurse who hopes the familiar, soothing ritual might spark some memory or reaction in him.
And yet, he remains silent. The doctors can't tell if it's trauma, a language barrier, or some other issue preventing him from speaking. As he grows more alert, his gaze seems more purposeful, as though he understands what's being said to him. But not a single word passes his lips.
With no family and no diagnosis beyond malnutrition and pneumonia, his future remains unclear. He'll need intensive speech therapy and counseling. And someone, somehow, will have to take him in - a foster family, a group home, or orphanage of some kind. A little boy alone in the world, voiceless and full of secrets still held close in his hesitant but healing heart.

Zaril is increasingly frustrated by how long it's taking to recover his strength, and by the fact that even using Thoughtsensing regularly, he still can't make the slightest headway on figuring out where he is. This place is strange. He's more and more sure that they've never heard of Gifts or magic, which makes him reluctant to use Mindspeech to communicate; he really doesn't feel safe drawing attention to himself, not when he's so vulnerable and relying heavily on being treated like an ordinary small child and definitely not a terrifying immortal mage. 

He cooperates with physical therapy, well aware of the importance of pushing himself to rebuild his strength. He tests his Gifts in private, when no one is looking, and his control of minor magic is improving, but his child-sized reserves are nowhere near what he needs for a Gate, and this place seems to have no ley-lines or other energy outside himself to draw on. For now, he's stuck here. 

He starts trying to learn the language, eavesdropping on the nurses' thoughts while they speak to him in order to work out what the fast-moving foreign syllables mean. By the end of his second week of hospitalization, he's talking a little, though so far he only knows 'yes', 'no', 'thank you' and 'stop.' 

The staff are overjoyed when the little boy first whispers "yes" and "no" to their questions. His voice is hoarse from disuse and intubation, but the fact that he's speaking at all seems a breakthrough. They continue to gently encourage him, engaging him in simple conversations and lessons to build up his vocabulary.
With his pneumonia clearing and strength improving daily, his discharge from the hospital seems imminent. But with no diagnosis for his initial symptoms, and no family or guardian to care for him, his future is still uncertain.
Child services has found a temporary group home willing to take him in while more permanent placement is sought. For now, at least, he won't end up in foster care. But no one knows how long he may remain in limbo.
On the day of his discharge, he's brought new clothes to replace the ragged tunic and leggings he arrived in - soft pajamas, slipper socks, and a warm robe. His long braid has been trimmed, his hair washed and combed smooth. He looks like any ordinary child, excited to be going "home".
The doctors and nurses say tearful goodbyes, sad to see the little boy leave but hopeful he's bound for better things. In just a few short weeks, he's become part of their daily lives. They may never know the full story behind his mysterious arrival, but they were able to save him - and for now, that is enough.
A smiling attendant from the group home arrives to pick him up. "Ready to go, kiddo?" she asks gently. He nods, whispers "Yes, please." His gaze seems far too worldly wise for his face as he wheels himself out of the room where he fought death and won, the first chapter of his strange new journey closing behind him.
On the drive to what will be his first home in this unfamiliar world, he stares out the window in silence. So much lies ahead, so many secrets left to unravel. But he has time now, and a voice. The means to survive, and to search. The story continues, as all stories must.

Evelyn has no idea what to expect when she gets the call from her supervising social worker about a potential new placement. 

...Interesting. Seven-year-old boy (or so they think, he's not talking much and they were never able to ID him.) Found downtown in the middle of the night a few weeks ago, soaked and dressed in ragged foreign clothing. He was badly malnourished and suffering from pneumonia, and spent the last couple of weeks hospitalized, including a few harrowing days in the PICU. The social services suspect he might have been raised in some kind of weird cult, given his long hair, odd handmade-looking clothing, and the fact that he initially didn't seem to speak a word of English, but they've been unable to match him to any missing-child reports. It's as though he appeared from thin air. 

He's clearly a bright little boy; the hospital nurses described him as very alert, and almost uncannily composed. In Evelyn's experience, this isn't necessarily a good thing; the most traumatized children are the ones who hide their vulnerability from adults. But he's learning English quickly, and seems calm about his situation. Most seven-year-old boys alone in the hospital would have had at least one tantrum about it, but he's apparently been calm and cooperative the entire time.  

He's still not in perfect health, according to the report, but he no longer needs medical care. Just regular meals and a warm bed - and, of course, love. Lots of love. What would it be like, to be seven years old and completely alone, surrounded by strangers? 

There are still a huge number of unanswered questions, but of course she'll take him for now. A seven-year-old needs stability and one-on-one attention, not the chaos of a short-term group home.

With butterflies in her stomach, she drives over to pick up her new charge.   

At the hospital, Evelyn is led to the room where the little boy waits. When she steps inside, he looks up at her with keen, dark eyes that seem far too wise for his age. His hair is neatly trimmed now, falling just past his shoulders, and he's dressed in soft gray pajamas and slippers the hospital provided.
"Hello," she says gently, kneeling to his level. "My name is Evelyn. I'm here to take you home."
He studies her a moment, as though gauging her intent. Then, softly: "Thank you."
His voice startles her, the words perfectly pronounced. For a child supposedly new to English, his vocabulary seems quite advanced.
On the drive to her small house, he stares silently out the window. She tries to engage him in conversation, asking about the things he likes, his hobbies, favorite foods. But his answers are short and hesitant. It's clear this bright, watchful child is accustomed to divulging little about himself.
Once home, she shows him the room that will be his, already furnished with colorful bedding, books, and toys donated by friends. He explores solemnly, running his hands over the spines of picture books. When she suggests a snack, he agrees - but eats mechanically, as though refueling and little more.
At bedtime, she tucks him in with a story, brushing a hand over his soft hair. His eyes follow her, still questioning, seeking clues to her true intent. She will have to be patient, build his trust in increments.
"Good night," she whispers, turning out the light. A small voice comes out of the darkness: "Sleep well, Evelyn."
She pauses in the doorway, struck by his use of her first name. Most children would say "Miss Evelyn" or "ma'am". But of course, most children his age have a lifetime of learning social conventions and boundaries in place already.
This little boy, she senses, will continue to surprise her in ways she can't yet guess. And she will have to walk carefully here, feeling her way through the shadows of his past to reach the child within.

....He's not in Velgarth. 

Zaril is thinking a lot more clearly, now that he's had several weeks of rest and enough to eat, and - this strange city doesn't match anything he knows of. They don't seem to have magic at all, and their technology is incredibly advanced. Not just the machines that kept him alive in the hospital, Healing without any Gifts in the mix, but the roads! The vehicles moving on their own, incredibly fast, without either horses to pull them or magic to propel them! The glass-windowed towers, rearing up higher into the sky than anything that's ever been built in the world he knows! 

And now he's being assigned a...temporary parent? It's very strange, but it's clear that this is following some kind of official policy. This place must be so spectacularly wealthy, to offer homes with bedrooms full of toys - and BOOKS, impossible numbers of books, clearly printed on a printing press and not handwritten - to all of its destitute orphaned children. 

He's sure there are problems not visible to him from here, of course. But...Velgarth was never going to be like this, never going to be wealthy and advanced and filled with glass towers and impossible medical equipment. Not unless he took the war to the gods. 

He lays some wards on the room, hopefully undetectable to anyone but himself, since the people here seem not to know that Gifts exist and might not have magic at all. Feeling slightly safer, he cries about it, a little, once he's sure his temporary parent isn't listening at the door. 

Maybe it's the strangeness of his new room, but for the first time since he fell through a mistargeted Gate, Zaril dreams of his past. Of a war he had never meant or wanted to fight. Of a moment he wasn't even there for, but that he can reconstruct perfectly in his imagination: Urtho's Tower, going up like a candle, his former mentor and teacher calling down a Final Strike and setting off all of his safeguards to keep the tower out of his former student's hands. 

He cries out in his sleep. 

Evelyn rushes into the little boy's room when she hears him cry out. He's sitting bolt upright in bed, eyes shocked wide open, tears staining his cheeks.
"Are you all right?" She sits beside him, wraps an arm around his thin shoulders. He nods mutely, but his body is trembling.
Whatever nightmare startled him awake cuts deep. She stays with him until his tears subside, rubbing his back, murmuring reassurances. Finally his breathing evens out and his rigid muscles relax.
"Do you want to talk about it?" she asks gently. He shakes his head.
"All right. But I'm here if you change your mind." She tucks him back in, brushes tears from his face. He catches her hand, holds it a moment, seeking comfort. Then releases her with a whispered "Thank you."
She leaves his door open a crack when she goes to her own room. But no further sounds emerge that night. In the morning, he comes to breakfast with no sign he remembers the terrors of the night before.
The days pass quietly. He seems content to read, explore the yard, accompany Evelyn on errands. His politeness is unwavering. But true details of his past or identity remain locked behind his courteous facade.
At times she catches a fleeting look of bitter sorrow or regret cross his face, a glimpse of the trauma harbored in his secret heart. But it disappears swiftly if he notices her watching. This child has learned not to share pain, to recover his composure even when grief feels unendurable. It will take patience and care to help him open up, and trust that sorrow shared may be sorrow halved.
The nightmares continue, often waking him gasping or crying out words she can't understand. Afterward he refuses comfort, curls tight under his covers until dawn. Yet in its light he emerges as courteous and bright-eyed as ever, slipping back into his role of the watchful, untroubled child - as though darkness held no terrors for him at all.

Zaril teaches himself the English alphabet within a couple of days, and from there works on sounding out words. (It's a language with very obnoxious orthography, he thinks, and of course full of words that refer to things they don't have in Velgarth, because this place continues to be absurdly technologically advanced.) He learns more words. His speech is still stilted, and he has to cheat rather heavily with Thoughtsensing in order to understand Evelyn, but he can just about hold a conversation in English now. 

(He takes notes in a language from another world, and hides them under his mattress where hopefully Evelyn won't find them.) 

...He wants to trust Evelyn. She doesn't shield at all and he can read her mind freely, and he's at this point very sure that she means him no harm. She's someone who chose a career of helping children who weren't her own, which says a lot about someone. But he still has no idea how she would react to the truth about him, which includes that he isn't, actually, a young child. He stole this body from an innocent small boy, but he himself is anything but. (Normally he can explain more of his work without giving away the immortality, but there's really no way to explain that he runs a large military and research organization without confessing that he isn't really seven.) 

He's not making any progress, though. And he can't just run away. This place is so organized, they have "computers" that replace Thoughtsensing, "cameras" that replace scrying, and a police department that will almost certainly track him down if he runs away. Which he doesn't even want to do, really, there's something deeply comforting about having a room of his own to sleep in, building more and more layers of wards on the walls that no one else can see. 

He gathers his courage, and approaches her one morning after breakfast. "Can we talk?" he says hesitantly. "There is - thing I say you– wish to say to you," he corrects himself. "But - secret - tell no one else?" 

Evelyn is surprised by his request, but nods reassuringly. "Of course. You can tell me anything."
He leads her to his room, closes the door behind them. His dark eyes are solemn as he studies her, as though gauging how much he dares reveal.
"Sit, please," he says, gesturing to his bed. She does, waiting patiently while he paces. His obvious anxiety tugs at her heart.
Finally he stops, takes a deep breath. "Not...ordinary boy. Not from...here." He gestures vaguely at their surroundings. "Come...through door. Not mean come this place. Lost, confused."
Her brows knit in confusion. A door? Does he mean a portal of some kind? She shakes her head, not following.
He makes a sound of frustration, searching for the right words. "Magic door. Lead...other world. Not know how work, now stuck. Want go home."
Evelyn stares at him, stunned. Is this some kind of game or fantasy? But his obvious distress seems real. And there were so many strange, unexplained aspects of his arrival...
"You're saying you're from...another world? And traveled here through magic?" She keeps her tone gentle, nonjudgmental. He nods vigorously.
"Yes! Gate go wrong, now trapped. Look little boy but...not." He thumps his chest in frustration. "Old soul, in wrong shape. Want get back but...door gone."
Her mind reels. This seems utterly impossible, and yet...the depth of sorrow and loss in his eyes speaks of a truth too strange to grasp. A child, and yet far more - an "old soul" in a form not his own. However outlandish his tale, she can't bring herself to dismiss it out of hand.
"I...see," she says slowly. "This must be very difficult for you." An understatement, but her mind struggles to find the right words. She reaches out, lays a hand on his arm.
"We will figure something out," she promises. And for now, that is all she can say.

Zaril observes her response warily, perched on the edge of his chair, his whole body tense and on guard. 

She genuinely doesn't seem to be angry. Maybe she just isn't following the implication, of what it means that he's someone much older in the body of a child. It feels dishonest not to enlighten her, but...he's going to leave it for now. He desperately needs allies. 

It's also getting pretty frustrating to hold a conversation with his limited vocabulary. And now that she knows some of the rest, revealing his Mindspeech isn't giving that much more away. 

He takes a deep breath, and reaches out for her mind. :I would find it easier to speak this way: 

Evelyn gasps aloud at the voice suddenly whispering in her mind. Her eyes widen as she stares at the little boy - who apparently is not a little boy at all.
:I apologize for startling you,: he says, a faint wry smile touching his lips. :As I said - I am not precisely what I seem. I have some...unusual abilities, though in this form they are quite limited.:
She nods hesitantly, trying to wrap her mind around this latest revelation. :You can speak...mind to mind?:
:Among other things, yes. It is a useful skill where I come from. I do not wish to deceive you, Evelyn, but my situation is...complicated.:
:I can see that,: she replies, a touch dazed. :You really are from...another world, then? This isn't some fantasy you've constructed?:
He shakes his head. :I wish it were. The world I knew is lost to me now, I fear. All I have left are these borrowed abilities - and knowledge and skills quite unsuited to a child's form.: A flicker of ancient sorrow crosses his face; she glimpses the depth of loss that haunts this strange being trapped in a little boy's body.
Her heart goes out to him, however strange and improbable his tale. Whatever else he may be, he is alone and afraid, cut off from all he once knew. In that, at least, he is still a child - and in need of comfort.
She reaches out, pulls him into an embrace. At first he stiffens, surprised; then gradually relaxes into her arms. For just a moment she feels his guard drop, senses the vast and weary spirit housed within this fragile shell.
:We will find a way,: she promises, as much to herself as to him. And silent tears threaten, at the wonder and mystery and grief for a life interrupted, far beyond her power to heal. All she can offer is a listening heart, and her hand to walk with him however strange the road may prove.

It's really weird how much being hugged helps! Zaril finds himself relaxing more than he has in weeks, his cheek resting on Evelyn's shoulder. He feels very small and safe, which is not a pair of emotions he's used to feeling together. 

...and now for some baffling reason he's crying, (wondering what Urtho would think of this confusing, disorienting, beautiful world...) 

Evelyn holds him while the storm of tears runs its course, rubbing his back in slow circles. His sorrow pierces her to the core, this lonely child who is not a child, marooned in a life and body not his own.
When at last his tears subside, she draws back to look into his face. Though tear-stained, his eyes seem calmer now, the terrible weight of grief lifted, if only for a moment.
"You have carried too much alone, little one," she says softly, brushing damp hair away from his cheeks. He makes a sound somewhere between laughter and a sob.
"Not little. But alone - yes." He sighs, leaning into her touch. "Long alone. Almost forget, how it feel...not alone."
"You aren't alone now," she promises. And though she knows not how, she will keep that promise as best she can.
In the days that follow, he speaks to her more openly of the world he left behind, and the life interrupted by his passage here. She learns of mentors lost, and wars no child's hands should have to fight. Of mysteries and wonders, and losses beyond counting.

At times it seems more fable than truth, and yet his eyes hold depths of sorrow no fantasy could evoke. This is real to him, as solid and vivid as her world is to her. And so she listens, bearing witness to wonders and to grief, honoring the life he lived before they found each other, adrift between two worlds.

Their journey together has only just begun. But step by step, moment by moment, she hopes to help heal the wounds of the past and build a bridge to the future. However strange that future proves to be, they will face it together - two souls drawn across worlds to walk as one.