The door opens, and her breath leaves her. He's standing there like none of it ever happened, like she hasn't been haunted by his face crumbling in ash for months. Stunned by the sight, she's speechless as he worries over her—how ironic it is to have a dead man fretting that she might not be doing so well.

His touch brings her back to herself, and instead of allowing his steady arm to steer her into his room, she turns to steer herself right into his arms. Forgetting herself, she draws her hands out of her pockets and wraps her arms around him, pulling him in tight and ignoring the squeeze on her ribs, the shortness of breath, the twinge of pain because it all only makes it feel more real, reassures her that he's here. It's not a dream.

"How is this happening?" She finds herself asking, hollow and bewildered. "It's really you."