There were other people here. That was inevitable, but it set him on edge. Sightseers were to be expected, and he could slip past and around them easily enough, silent and sleek as ever. They wouldn’t know what to look for, and would not understand even if they had any inkling of what he sought.

What troubled him more was the police presence. They stayed high in the hills and seemed casual and laid back—there simply to ensure the safety of those visiting, rather than anything else—but he had no desire to tangle with the authorities. He sleeked past them as well. He came so close to one officer that she frowned and glanced around, rubbing at her eyes as if she had dust in them, or the itch of a painful memory.

Soon he found himself in a place that he recognised from long ago. The hillside had changed—trees had fallen, others had grown—but the contours were the same, and if he stood facing uphill it might almost be forty years before. But he could smell death in the valley. The scent of silt and reservoir bed was on the air, the decayed remains of countless fish and plant life, like time itself had slowed and sunk to the bottom of this valley that was once home.

Bone closed his eyes and breathed out slowly, then looked again.

He saw his tree. He’d known it was close, but hadn’t realised how close. It was up to his right, past a small rise in the valley side, and even though it was changed so much he knew it was the place from which he’d once watched his life change. Nestled inside that tree he had observed his childhood ending, and felt the cruel coolness of the world closing around him, indifferent to his struggle and loss. Such coolness had remained with him ever since. His search for those like him was a way of insulating himself against it.

He went to the tree and looked inside. It was dead now, and over the years it had been reduced by time and rot. One whole side of the trunk had fallen away, offering the inside to view. No one could have hidden in the old tree anymore, even if they were small enough. He tried to imagine it as it was back then, but it had changed too much. Instead he reached out and plucked a shard of soft timber from the trunk. It was damp and slick. He dropped it.

It was time to move on. In his life, and in his purpose for that day. Time to go down into the dead valley to ensure that the past remained the past. He turned his back on the tree and started downhill.