The old woman by the window turns back, heart pounding in her chest in a way it hasn't done for decades, and she watches almost in slow-motion as the red-haired figure turns to reveal his face. Then it's her turn to tense up, frail, long-fingered hands curling into fists on the tabletop. He hasn't aged a single day since she saw him last, and to look at him is like looking at something out of a dream. He can't possibly be real, and even knowing what he is doesn't change the fact that it's astonishing to see him in the flesh, just as she left him fifty-some years ago.

She can't seem to make her voice work, can't really do anything but stare, and pray that he sees something of the beautiful girl she once was in her old face.