For several long, trembling seconds after Cella placed her hand in his, neither of them actually moved.

It was almost absurd, in a way. A whole year had been ripped open between them. Death had been grieved. A funeral had been held. She had learned to carry his absence like a second heartbeat, and he had crossed cities and hospitals and months of frustration to find her again. And yet here they were, standing on a quiet college path in the soft gold of evening, both acting as if walking forward together was somehow the most terrifying part of all.