"You were humming."
Beckett's voice was soft, almost distant, as if it belonged to someone dreaming out loud rather than a man sitting upright in a candlelit room. He was shirtless, ribs still bandaged, a sheen of sweat on his chest despite the cool night air. His hand trembled slightly as it gripped the edge of the cot.
Camille, seated across from him with a shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders, tilted her head. "Humming?"
"In the clearing. When I found you," he said. "I couldn't place it at first. It was familiar, but wrong. Too slow. Too hollow. And then…"
She leaned forward, her voice no louder than his. "And then?"
Beckett's eyes flicked toward her. "You turned to me. But it wasn't you."
Silence held between them. The only sound was the faint crackling of the hearth in the far corner of the healer's chamber. Outside, the storm had started again, wind brushing rain against the windows like fingers tapping to be let in.
