She’s so close to breaking down she can’t get the words out of her mouth. She draws back to look at him and can hardly see for the tears washing through her eyes. She knows it’s him, though. He looks just as she remembers: just a little taller than her, trim build, narrow face. The impassive features that always made him seem like he’s a million kilometers away, or just not paying attention. He’s cut his hair very short in one of those slash-cut styles. He’s wearing a long dark duster and has something, a flute, slung behind his shoulders.