The human concept of ‘home’ is peculiar. To build it not just in a place, but in people. Eleanor’s village was wooden huts when I left it; now it is all stone and noise, yet the sea air still carries the same salt. I stood where her house once stood, watching strangers pass, and for the first time in centuries—I felt lost. Not in the way of forests or stars, but in time itself. How odd, to outlive your own landmarks.

(Do grandchildren always resemble their grandparents so strongly? This one even wielded a frying pan at a pickpocket. Some things, at least, remain.)