The morning after the fisherman's rescue, Theron woke to find Mora sitting by his fire.

  He didn't hear her approach. Didn't sense her presence until he opened his eyes and there she was, cross-legged on the ground across from him, watching him with those sharp, unreadable eyes. She held a small clay cup in both hands, steam rising from it. Tea.

  Theron sat up slowly, careful not to startle her. His heart pounded, but he kept his face calm. "Mora," he said. "Good morning."

  She didn't respond. Just kept watching him, studying him, the way she'd studied him that first day at the camp's edge. But different now. Less suspicious, maybe. More curious.

  They sat like that for a long moment. The fire crackled between them. The camp stirred to life in the distance. Mora drank her tea. Theron waited.

  Finally, Mora spoke. Her voice was low, rough with age, but clear. She asked a question—long, complex, nothing like the simple words Dorn used. Theron caught maybe one word in ten. "Where" something. "Come from" something. "Why" something.

  He spread his hands. "I don't understand. I'm sorry. My words are still few."

  Mora's eyes narrowed. She tried again, slower this time, pointing at him as she spoke. "You. Where. From." She pointed at the ground beneath him, then at the sky, then made a sweeping gesture that seemed to encompass everything. Where did you come from?

  Theron understood the question. He'd been expecting it, dreading it. He pointed at himself. "Theron." Then he pointed east, toward the direction he'd come from. "Far. Very far. Many days walk." He made a walking gesture with his fingers, then a sleeping gesture, repeated it many times.

  Mora shook her head. Not satisfied. She pointed at him again, then at the sky, then made a gesture he didn't recognize—hands cupped, then opening, like something emerging. From the sky? From somewhere else?

  Theron hesitated. How did you explain another world to someone who'd never left this valley? How did you say "I died and woke up in a mass grave" in a language of a few hundred words?

  He pointed at himself. "Theron." Then he pointed at his chest, over his heart. "Here. Theron here." Then he pointed at the sky, at the stars, at everything. "But... other. Before. Different."

  He didn't have the words. He could see the frustration building in Mora's face—not anger, just the irritation of someone trying to understand and failing.

  She tried a different approach.

  She set down her tea, reached across the fire, and touched his arm. Her hand was dry and cool, the skin papery with age. She closed her eyes.

  Theron sat perfectly still. He didn't know what she was doing, but he sensed it was important. A test, maybe. Or something else. Something beyond words.

  Mora's face shifted. Her brow furrowed. Her lips moved slightly, forming silent words. Minutes passed. The fire crackled. Theron waited.

  Then Mora opened her eyes.

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  She stared at him with an expression he couldn't read. Not fear. Not anger. Something else. Wonder? Confusion? Both?

  She spoke slowly, carefully, as if testing each word. "You... not... here."

  Theron nodded. "Yes. Not here. Before, other place. Now here."

  Mora shook her head. Not that. She touched his arm again, then his chest, over his heart. "You. Here." Then she pointed at the sky, at the world around them, at everything. "But also... not. Part here. Part... other."

  Theron didn't fully understand, but he understood enough. She sensed something. The same way she sensed when rain was coming, when someone was lying. Her magic—if that's what it was—had touched him and found something strange.

  He nodded. "Yes. Part other. I don't know why. I don't know how."

  Mora studied him for a long moment. Then, slowly, she nodded. Acceptance, maybe. Or just acknowledgment.

  She picked up her tea, took a long drink, and looked at him over the rim of the cup. Then she spoke again—not a question this time, but a statement. Short. Simple.

  "You stay."

  Not a question. Not a command. Just an observation, or maybe a decision.

  Theron nodded. "Yes. I stay."

  Mora considered this. Then she stood, gathered her cup, and walked back toward camp without another word.

  Theron sat by his fire, heart pounding, and watched her go.

  ---

  An hour later, Dorn appeared with food and found him still sitting there, staring at nothing.

  "Theron?" Dorn set down the food—roasted meat, some kind of grain cake—and made a questioning face. "You okay? You look... far."

  Theron blinked, focused on Dorn. "Mora came."

  Dorn's eyebrows shot up. "Mora? Here?" He looked around, as if expecting her to reappear. "What she want?"

  Theron tried to explain. "She ask where I from. I try to tell. She not understand." He touched his arm, where Mora had touched him. "She do... thing. Touch. Eyes close. Then she say... I not here. Part other."

  Dorn's face did something complicated. He sat down heavily, pulled out some meat, chewed while he thought. Then he spoke slowly, choosing words Theron would know.

  "Mora... sees. Not with eyes. With... inside." He tapped his chest. "She know things. Rain coming. Lie told. Danger near." He shrugged. "Not always. Sometimes. But she know."

  Theron nodded. "She knows I'm different."

  Dorn considered this. Then he grinned. "Mora think you different. I think you strange. Same thing, maybe."

  Theron laughed. The tension broke. "Maybe. Same thing."

  They ate together, Dorn chattering about the day's plans—a hunt, some trouble with a broken spear, something about a child who'd fallen into the river but been fine. Theron listened, asked questions, learned words. Normal life. Ordinary morning.

  But in the back of his mind, he kept seeing Mora's face. The wonder in her eyes. The way she'd said "You stay" like it was already decided.

  Maybe it is, he thought. Maybe it already was.

  ---

  That afternoon, Sora found him organizing his herbs and immediately started asking questions.

  Not about Mora—she hadn't seen that visit. About everything else. What was this plant? What was that? Could she try making tea again? Could she help with a patient next time? Could she—?

  Theron laughed, held up his hands. "Slow. One question at a time."

  She huffed, crossed her arms, but waited.

  He showed her more plants. Taught her more words. Let her practice on a small cut on his own finger—she was nervous, hands shaking, but she cleaned it and bound it carefully. When she finished, she looked up at him with such hope that his heart ached.

  "Good," he said. "Very good. Sora healer now."

  She beamed. Then she threw her arms around him in a quick, fierce hug, and ran off before he could react.

  Theron sat there, stunned, then laughed and shook his head.

  Definitely her father's daughter, he thought. Wherever he is.

  ---

  That evening, Mora appeared again.

  Not at his fire this time. Just... nearby. Gathering herbs at the edge of the forest, close enough that he could see her, far enough that it wasn't a visit. She worked methodically, selecting leaves, examining roots, filling a pouch at her belt.

  Theron watched for a while. Then, on impulse, he gathered some of his own herbs—the aloe-like plant, some feverbark—and walked toward her.

  She saw him coming. Didn't move, didn't speak. Just watched.

  He stopped a respectful distance away and held out his herbs. "These. I use for healing. You know them?"

  Mora examined what he offered. She took the feverbark first, sniffed it, nodded. She made a tea-drinking gesture, then pointed at her head, made a hot face. Fever. Yes, I know this.

  Then she took the aloe-like plant. Examined it more closely. Sniffed it. Touched the gel inside to her finger, tasted it carefully. Her eyebrows rose. She looked at him with new interest.

  "This," she said slowly, pointing at the plant. "You use for wound?"

  Theron nodded. "Yes. Cut. Clean, then this. Helps heal. Stops bad things." He didn't have the word for infection.

  Mora considered this. Then she pointed at her own herbs, began naming them. Some he recognized—feverbark, sleepweed. Others were new. She showed him their uses, their preparations, their dangers. He repeated the names, stored them away.

  They worked together until the light faded, two healers sharing knowledge across a language barrier. When the sun set, Mora gathered her things and walked back to camp without a word of farewell.

  But the next morning, Theron found a small pouch outside his shelter. Inside were dried leaves he didn't recognize, and a small clay cup—the same one Mora had been drinking from.

  No note. No explanation. Just the gift.

  Theron held the cup, ran his fingers over its smooth surface, and felt something he hadn't felt since leaving his old life.

  Friendship. The beginning of it, anyway.