I wanted to know how he’d found me all the way here, so far from where we last saw each other. But recalling our last engagement made my chest squeeze tighter. For I remembered so clearly his back as he retreated into the woods, carrying the small child pyre in his arms while I knelt beside Vincent’s stony body.

<<There is a place>>, he meant, very gently, as if he knew I had waded deeply into my sorrow and how softly he should intend. It was only then that I realized my hand was resting in his, our palms pressing easily together. And instead of warming me, as he had when he found me in the snow after we destroyed the speleothem, he cooled my body with his touch. I could not say why this brought feeling to my cheeks, but I wished it did not and tried to force those feelings from showing themselves further.

We walked. This also was strange, for I very much wanted to go to a place. Any place, really, besides standing there at the base of that same tree. And I could not tell whether he knew how strongly I wanted to go to a place or if my strong wanting to go was a result of his suggestion.

And when we started our walking, I did not know if he began it or if the initiation was mine. But it was not difficult to move together. His gait was unnaturally smooth, and it was easy to predict where his steps would fall. He moved just a bit more instinctively so we avoided tripping on the high roots. The pyre did not seem to mind if I noticed a sound and suddenly stopped to listen or if I paused to feel the waxiness of a leaf that hung in some interesting way. In fact, I had the impression that he was amused by these interruptions and that he enjoyed watching me think.

Did I have this impression—that I gave him pleasure—because it was my own mind that gave it to me or because an impression was something he could communicate to me with intention?

Finally, we arrived at the mouth of a cave, a brook of running water trickling over its lip and joining a stream along the forest floor. I stepped fully into this stream, soaking my boots but so ravenous for running water to touch my skin that I did not mind.

I knelt and dipped my arms in the flow, closing my eyes for a moment. I almost wept, for water is the same wherever it flows. My hands in one stream meant I was in the same flow, the same water where Vincent Slept, though we were lengths and lengths apart.

<<There is more>>, the pyre meant.