This man could have been Ezekiel’s shadow. He had left for one reason only, and she had ground herself to this place now with feverish hold. He both loved and hated her and knew in his heart that she alone mattered. Talitha was his moon, his Shadow, his whole and his opposite. Yet he had seen what she truly was, and part of him withdrew from her as all wild beasts might do. She was not pure, not entirely good—but he loved her yet.
So he returned the sad smile, understanding what it was to know that endless quest, and looked back to the Waste. “I used to think that too. Mine came home. Yours will too.” Even now, with the weight of a thousand days upon his shoulders, Ezekiel knew what hope was. That single vision had kept him alive while he journeyed through endless nights and days, turning feral and strange in the process. Hope, like faith, was so fragile; it was a test to hold to it.
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