He’d been away so long he’d nearly forgotten what that word meant. His fingers itched, begging him for permission to return his surroundings to life, but Bastiaan resisted their call. Not yet. He stopped at the front door. It hung open—inviting him back in. He both dreaded and desired what was about to happen.

With a bone-deep breath, he stepped over the threshold.

Sunlight spilled through the open doorway and wide windows, the end of springtime as it had been for the past thirty-two years. Bastiaan took in the equally familiar and foreign space. White stone counters and rough cabinets carved by his own hands before he understood woodwork. A worn and dented table beneath the widest window.

A young boy sat on a tall stool, one foot resting on the lowest rung. His fingers were frozen midtap on the table, his chin resting on the palm of his other hand. His eyes were closed. Anyone might think the boy asleep except for the distinct lack of rise and fall from his chest.

Tears burned Bastiaan’s eyes as he gazed upon the lad. A face he’d missed until he’d forgotten the boy’s features altogether. As with every return, it felt odd to find this boy, this place, unchanged despite Bastiaan’s absence. This time, he’d been gone so long that the Stillness, as he’d come to think of it, had begun to feel more constant than the Aging.

And that’s what frightened Bastiaan most.

The itch in his fingers reached an intensity reflective of screaming. He raised his right hand and tugged off his leather glove, finger by finger, until skin and air met like long-separated lovers. A single silver line shone against the tanned pad of his middle finger. The mark of magic—of a Talent.

For years Bastiaan had longed for this moment, yet now that it was upon him, he hesitated. A dim panic threatened his mind. This time the Stillness had changed him. Scarred him. He was far different from the man who’d first entered it. No one would understand. No one could know.

He feared the return of the noise. Of the life.

If it’s too much for me, I can always reenter the Stillness when the next full moon renews my magic. And with that glimmer of reassurance, he pressed his fingers together and snapped.

The Talent Mark dimmed to grey.

The rhythm hit first—the feeling of time moving once more, the sun inching across the sky, back to the position it held before he’d stopped time. The weight of aging took control of his body again. Bastiaan could never explain how tangible time was to him. He felt each second pass just as he perceived his own pulse. Each hour dissolved into his skin like moisture, promising to bring wrinkles and weakness and decay.