It was not surprising, and perhaps it wasn't even surprising that he let it happen (over and over). He always did. People found him because he could never run far. He couldn't cross an ocean like so many he'd met way back when, in those days he couldn't remember. He wouldn't climb a mountain anymore. He wouldn't lose himself in one direction without turning back. He couldn't walk that long. He couldn't walk that far. Instead, Laruku would find a quiet, shady place. He would sit and he would forget about time because things were pleasant when there was quiet and shade and an emptiness before him. In that forgotten time, others would move, and he would stay still, and then, they would find him. He let it happen.
He didn't have to answer, of course. Let her believe that he was not there, though she would undoubtedly check to make sure. Let her believe that he had gone deaf and mute too, maybe, but she would stay with him anyway. She was too kind. Where had she gotten that kindness from? Not from him. Not from her mother. You can come in,
he said quietly, and his voice felt rough and foreign because he hadn't used it in weeks. The birds would sing to him, but he wouldn't look up. Laruku turned from the blocked window and propped his elbows on the table, glancing sideways half-heartedly in the direction the door was. Would she ask to stay? Would she ask for him to go with her somewhere? Would she say goodbye? He stopped wondering; he'd know in a moment.