The old healer was hunched over her mortaring, back to the door, when a gust of wind rattled the hanging dried plants.

Hiccup stumbled in, shaking salt spray from his tunic, Toothless a dark shape blocking the light behind him.

He froze mid-step.

There, sprawled by the hearth like a cat that had claimed the best spot, was you.

Exactly the same as the day you vanished. Same small frame. Same shadow-dark edges that seemed to bleed into the stone floor. Same ink-black hair splayed across a dusty woven rug.

A book rested open on your stomach — one of Gothi’s old herbals, pages yellowed and flaking.