There they were. Two figures, frozen in the hesitant space just before something happens. A boy, maybe sixteen, with dark hair that fell a little too neatly, wearing a button-down shirt that looked stiff and new. Henry. But not the Henry she knew. His shoulders were hunched with a nervous energy, his hands clenched at his sides.

His voice was younger. Softer. It held none of the cold, resonant certainty of One. It wavered.