"I see," she murmurs, even though she doesn't at all, "that makes sense," even though it doesn't. It could make sense, it will make sense, when she's had a night to sleep on it—but right now it feels as if her mind is a wagon wheel stuck in a muddy rut, trying to push forward yet getting dragged back into the muck with every shove. Vanya is alive. Less than a minute ago, he was dead. Only one of these things can be true.

He hasn't disappeared, or warped into a demon. He sounds like himself. Has the same warm eyes, the same dear hands.

Something doesn't have to make sense to be true.

Ennaris exhales a shuddering breath and steps away from his hand—forward, not back. She wraps her arm around his torso in a clinging embrace, curling her fist into the back of his shirt. With her ear pressed to his chest, she can hear the steady beat of his heart, feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. Her throat works, thick with tears for the second time tonight. There's so much she should say—is Pamplemousse alright, is he alright, who else has he told that he's back, Gwenaëlle should know—but all that she can find the words for is

"I missed you, I missed you, Vanya—"