---Bearee---

  I settle into my favorite spot at the kitchen island, savoring a spoonful of the dark chocolate gelato I picked up from that little Italian place on Bloor Street. It's been a long day of client sessions—three families struggling with pandemic-related isolation issues and a particularly challenging couple on the brink of separation. My muscles ache from sitting in my office chair for too many consecutive hours, but the rich, bittersweet flavor melting on my tongue makes everything a little better.

  After hanging my coat and setting down my bags, I wander into the living room with my dessert and find Jason and Grace already there. She sits perfectly still on our couch, somehow maintaining precise balance with both Dawson and our new kitten stretched across her lap. Jason occupies the armchair across from her, his posture relaxed though his head is angled in that particular way I've come to recognize—optimizing his ability to hear rather than see.

  "Mom!" Jason's head turns at the sound of my footsteps, his face lighting up. His expression carries that animated quality I haven't seen in months—slightly elevated eyebrows, wider smile, a brightness that has nothing to do with vision. "You won't believe what happened at Northern Edge yesterday."

  I settle into the other armchair, watching how Grace's gaze tracks my movement with that unnerving precision that always reminds me of the military veterans I sometimes counsel.

  "Let me guess," I say, gesturing with my spoon before remembering Jason can't see the motion. "Dave finally convinced you to try the overnight winter camping trip?"

  "Better," Jason grins, his fingers tapping excitedly against the armrest. "Grace taught them how to make arctic feathersticks, and Dave offered her a job on the spot."

  I raise an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. Dave Erikson doesn't impress easily. In the three years I've known him through Jason's work at the survival school, I've never heard him offer immediate employment to anyone.

  "You must be very skilled," I say to Grace, noting how she sits—back perfectly straight, shoulders squared, hands resting precisely on the armrests when not petting the animals. Nothing in her posture suggests relaxation, yet they completely at ease with her. "Dave's quite particular about his instructors."

  "Her skills are incredible, Mom," Jason continues before Grace can respond. His hands move expressively as he speaks—fingers demonstrating techniques I know he can't see himself performing. "She showed me this technique for holding a knife that changes everything about how it works. It's like the blade becomes an extension of your arm instead of just something you're gripping."

  I take another spoonful of gelato, observing how he describes visual details with surprising accuracy. His enthusiasm is contagious, but it raises questions I carefully file away for later.

  "She made these incredible feathersticks—paper-thin curls that would light even in extreme cold," he continues. "Dave couldn't believe it. Then she showed me how to find the grain in wood so you can split it with half the effort. Even Carter was impressed, and you know how he is."

  I do know. Carter Blackwood—former military medic, now wilderness first-aid instructor—is even harder to impress than Dave. His approval carries significant weight.

  "The job offer was unexpected," Grace finally speaks, her voice carrying that careful precision that makes every statement sound like a military report. "Though tactically advantageous, as it provides opportunity to contribute resources to this household."

  The kitten stirs in her lap, stretching before climbing up her torso. With remarkable gentleness considering, well, Grace, she assists the tiny creature, allowing her to settle against her neck where the tiney cat immediately begins purring while rapping herself around the young woman's neck like a scarf.

  "You're considering it, then?" I ask directly, watching how she handles the kitten—the careful support of her small body, the seemingly unconscious way her finger strokes beneeth the cat's chin.

  "Yes," Grace replies. "Though there are complications regarding electronic equipment. I experience discomfort near computers which may limit certain functions."

  Jason jumps in eagerly, "That's no problem though—she can focus on teaching while I handle the admin stuff. Dave's already figured out the logistics."

  The way he automatically accommodates her needs—finding solutions before problems fully materialize—tells me more than any words could. It conferms my son has formed an attachment to this woman that goes beyond mere friendship or gratitude.

  "You have ice cream," Grace observes suddenly, her eyes focusing on my bowl with familiar intensity.

  "Gelato," I correct automatically. "Italian ice cream. Would you like to try some? I have plenty in the kitchen."

  Grace's expression shifts subtly—a flicker of what might be curiosity. "I have not consumed this substance before."

  Jason laughs, a bright sound that fills the living room. "It won't do to you what it did to P'Thok, I hope."

  I look toward him questioningly, though of course he can't see my expression.

  "Character from a web novel I showed her," Jason explains. "An alien trying ice cream for the first time. It's pretty funny actually—he's from this brutal warrior society and gets completely overwhelmed by how amazing ice cream is." Before with a grin: "she's adorible when she reeds it, she's consuming the book faster then anyone I've ever seen and it's fucking adorible."

  The parallel isn't lost on me. I offer my bowl to Grace. "Here, you can try mine. It's best when it's slightly melted."

  She accepts it with practiced care, studying the dark substance with the analytical focus of a scientist examining a new specimen. Her first taste is tentative—a small amount balanced precisely on the spoon, brought to her lips with deliberate control.

  The change in her expression is subtle but unmistakable. Her eyes widen fractionally, pupils dilating. She takes a second taste, more confident now.

  "The sensation is..." she pauses, apparently searching for the right word, "complex. Cold yet somehow generating warmth. Sweet but with bitter undertones. Unusual texture."

  "Do you like it?" Jason asks, his head tilted toward her voice with anticipation.

  Grace considers this question with the seriousness of someone being asked about nuclear launch codes. "Yes," she finally declares. "It is acceptable. More than acceptable."

  Jason beams at this assessment, clearly pleased by her reaction. The pride in his expression makes my heart twist with a mixture of joy and concern. Twenty-eight years of motherhood have taught me to recognize the signs of falling in at least infatuation, even when the person experiencing it doesn't fully realize it yet.

  "So tell me more about this survival school visit," I prompt, returning the bowl to my lap. "Did you meet everyone there?"

  "Oh yeah," Jason continues enthusiastically. "Mike kept making these ridiculous comments about Grace being my 'girlfriend,'" he rolls his eyes, though I notice a slight flush creeping up his neck. "But then Grace showed them her arctic survival techniques and they shut up pretty quick."

  "Not entirely accurate," Grace interjects, watching the kitten as she kneads against her collarbone. "Mike continued to make such references throughout our visit. Raj as well."

  "Well, yeah," Jason admits with a sheepish grin, "but it was different after you showed them what you could do. More respectful teasing than whatever they were doing before."

  "Tactical demonstration established competence hierarchy," Grace states, as if this explains everything. And maybee to her, it does.

  "She showed them how to make these incredible feathersticks for starting fires in extreme cold," Jason elaborates, turning his face toward me. "Like, paper-thin curls that catch a spark even in those super-low oxygen conditions. Dave said he's never seen craftsmanship like that in thirty years of teaching."

  The pride in his voice is unmistakable. It's the same tone Magnen uses when describing a particularly clever building solution one of our sons has developed.

  "And then she taught me this incredible knife grip," Jason continues, mimicking the motion with his hand with surprising accuracy for someone who's never seen it performed. "It completely changes how the knife feels—like it weighs half as much but can do twice the work."

  "The standard grip Jason was using wastes approximately thirty percent of applied energy through improper force distribution," Grace explains. "His adaptation to the new technique was unusually rapid."

  I note how she offers this praise—factual, straightforward, without emotional embellishment. Yet something in her tone suggests genuine appreciation. Clinical as her assessment is, there's warmth beneath the precision. As a psychologist, I find the contradiction fascinating. As a mother, I'm not sure what to think.

  "After knife skills, she showed me how to do proper batoning—that's splitting wood using a knife and a baton," Jason explains, though I'm familiar with the technique from previous conversations. "She can feel the grain in the wood somehow, finds exactly where it wants to split naturally. Cut right through a log with four light taps that would have taken me like fifteen heavy strikes."

  "Natural separation planes exist within all organic materials," Grace says, as the kitten nuzzles against her neck. "Success comes from identification, not force."

  The statement hangs in the air for a moment—something philosophically profound delivered as if she were simply commenting on the weather.

  "After the practical demonstration, we went inside and I showed Grace the spreadsheets I maintain for the school," Jason continues. "She got a headache from the computers though—some kind of sensitivity to electronic fields maybe."

  I frown slightly at this. Jason "showing" spreadsheets doesn't align with the fact he can't actually see, but he tends to use the termonoligy around him, as we all do, so this might just be that. Probably is, come to think about it.

  "Neurological distress," Grace corrects, "proportional to proximity to the electronic equipment. Complete symptom resolution upon exiting the structure."

  I make a mental note of this unusual symptom. In my practice, I've encountered patients with claimed electromagnetic sensitivity, but Grace's description sounds different—more specific, more consistent.

  "Dave wants her to focus on teaching the advanced students," Jason adds, "especially military guys who come through thinking they know everything. He was practically salivating at the thought of Grace taking them down a peg."

  Grace adjusts the kitten's position with gentle fingers. "Hierarchical reassessment is often necessary in training environments. Those with overconfidence in basic skills require calibration before higher-level instruction can be effective."

  I bite back a smile at her clinical description of what sounds essentially like 'putting cocky students in their place.' There's something refreshingly direct about her approach, even as the psychologist in me catalogs the atypical speech patterns and emotional responses.

  "How did you get to and from Northern Edge?" I ask, remembering that the survival school is over fifteen kilometers away, much too far for Jason to walk in yesterday's weather, especially since he doesn't know how to get there while walking, not from street by street, Grace helping or no Grace helping.

  A momentary silence falls. Jason's head tilts slightly toward Grace, something unspoken passing between them.

  "We took the bus," Jason says, a fraction too quickly. His left eyebrow twitches slightly—a tell he's had since childhood when not being entirely truthful.

  "The bus," I repeat neutrally, noting but not challenging the obvious lie. "That's good thinking."

  Grace observes this exchange with that unnervingly intense focus of hers. I wonder what calculations are running behind those green eyes, what tactical assessments she's making about family dynamics and acceptable deception.

  What troubles me more is the growing pile of inconsistencies—Jason describing visual details he shouldn't be able to see, claiming to show Grace spreadsheets, navigating a bus system that would be challenging even with sight, and Grace wouldn't know the system well enough to guide Jason, and she doesn't know how to do that, describing pictures when we first got home or no describing pictures when we first got home. Something significant has changed, something neither of them is telling me.

  "You should finish your ice cream before it melts, mom," Jason says, clearly eager to change the subject. "Grace might want another taste too."

  "I would not object to additional consumption," Grace states, her tone still formal despite the almost childlike request beneath the words.

  I pass the bowl back to her, watching as she takes another careful spoonful, her expression softening almost imperceptibly with pleasure. Dawson shifts in her lap, rearranging himself without ever fully waking, while the kitten continues purring against her neck.

  The scene creates a strange juxtaposition—this intensely vigilant woman who speaks of tactical advantages and hierarchical reassessment, gently balancing two sleeping animals while savoring ice cream with the wide-eyed appreciation of someone experiencing simple joy for the first time.

  "The textural contrast between the solid and liquid components is particularly interesting," Grace observes, examining the spoon as if conducting scientific research. "In my homeland, all substances become uniformly solid at our typical ambient temperatures."

  "Where exactly is your homeland?" I ask, seizing the opportunity the question presents.

  "Far north," she answers without hesitation. "Above the tree line where temperatures average -40°C during winter months."

  Her answer is both specific and evasive—giving concrete details while revealing nothing about actual locations. Another calculated response that raises more questions than it answers.

  "It sounds challenging," I say, genuine curiosity in my voice. "What brought you to Toronto?"

  "Circumstance," Grace replies simply, returning the spoon to the bowl with precise movements.

  Jason shifts in his chair, his expression betraying discomfort at my line of questioning. "Mom, Grace has been teaching me some amazing survival skills," he redirects, his tone slightly too enthusiastic. "Things that could actually be useful if I ever get stuck somewhere without help."

  The protective deflection is telling. Whatever secrets they're keeping, my son feels compelled to shield Grace from my professional probing. I recognize the signs of building walls—I've seen it countless times in my therapy practice when couples close ranks against perceived outside interference.

  "I'm glad," I say softly, accepting the conversational shift for now. "It sounds like it was an incredibly educational day."

  "It was," Jason agrees, relaxing slightly as the perceived threat to Grace recedes. "One of the best days I've had in... well, maybe ever."

  The simple honesty in his voice strikes me directly in the heart. For all my concerns and questions, I cannot deny the change in my son—the animation in his voice, the confidence in his posture, the genuine enthusiasm that has been absent for too long.

  Grace watches him as he speaks, her expression subtly different from how she regards others. There's an attentiveness there, a focus that suggests he isn't merely another tactical variable in her environment. She's cataloging his responses, yes, but there's something more—something that might, in anyone else, be called tenderness.

  As they continue discussing the details of their day, I observe the dynamic between them with both maternal concern and professional curiosity. The psychologist in me sees the red flags—the secrets, the inconsistencies, Grace's clearly atypical emotional processing, Jason's inexperience with relationships.

  Yet the mother in me sees something else—the joy in Jason's expression, the subtle softening in Grace's demeanor when she looks at him, the way they've created their own language of shared experiences in just days. For all her strangeness, Grace has awakened something in my son that's been dormant his entire life.

  The kitten stirs against Grace's neck, tiny paws stretching before settling again. Watching her adjust to accommodate the small creature's comfort—a completely unnecessary action from a purely tactical perspective—tells me more than any words could about her capacity for growth and adaptation.

  Whatever lies ahead for them—for all of us—I suspect our lives have been irrevocably changed by the arrival of this strange, intense woman who speaks of survival with the precision of a scientist and watches my son with the focus of someone discovering something precious and entirely unexpected.

  And behind it all, the mystery remains: what aren't they telling me about Jason's sight, and why are they keeping it secret?

  ---Jason---

  Mom's gelato spoon clinks against the empty bowl as she sets it on the coffee table, the sound echoing in the comfortable silence that's settled over our living room. Mom's gaze keeps bouncing between Grace and me, that thoughtful psychologist look etched into her features. I can practically hear the gears turning in her head, cataloging our interactions, filing away inconsistencies. The questions about the buses weren't subtle, though I appreciate her not pushing further.

  "I should probably get those reports finished for Dave before tomorrow," I say, stretching my arms above my head. "Grace, would you mind helping me with something in the backyard first? I wanted to practice what you showed me yesterday."

  Grace nods once, that precise military movement that somehow manages to convey both efficiency and willingness. "Yes. Practical application reinforces theoretical knowledge."

  Mom's eyebrows lift slightly. "Don't stay out too long. It's getting colder, and dinner will be ready in an hour."

  "We won't," I promise, already heading for the door that leads to our small backyard. Grace follows, transferring Kitten to a cushion with such careful movements you'd think she was handling explosives rather than a tiny ball of floof.

  The air outside nips at my exposed skin as we step onto the wooden deck Dad built three summers ago. The temperature must have dropped another five degrees since afternoon, and my breath forms small clouds that dissipate into the darkening sky. Our backyard isn't large by Toronto standards, but the previous owners installed a small fire pit surrounded by stone seating—perfect for the impromptu lesson I have in mind.

  "I wanted to ask," I begin, pulling my jacket tighter around me, "if you could teach me how to find the grain in wood? You showed me where to cut most of the time yesterday, but I'd like to learn how to identify it myself."

  Grace stands with perfect stillness, her borrowed jacket hanging slightly loose on her frame. Despite the cold, she shows no signs of discomfort—no hunched shoulders, no tucked chin, just that alert, predatory awareness that never seems to leave her.

  "This is a valuable skill," she acknowledges. "Do you have suitable materials for demonstration?"

  I nod, gesturing toward the pile of split logs stacked neatly against the fence. "Dad keeps a good supply for the fire pit. I'll grab my knife, too."

  When I return with my full-tang fixed-blade knife and several pieces of wood, Grace is examining the yard with that methodical focus of hers, likely cataloging escape routes and defensive positions out of habit. It strikes me again how different our baseline realities are—where I see a peaceful backyard, she sees potential tactical advantages and vulnerabilities.

  Her eyes lock onto the knife in my hand, and her brow furrows slightly. "Your blade requires maintenance before use. The edge has dulled significantly since yesterday's practice."

  Heat creeps up my neck, and I glance down at the knife. To my eyes, it looks perfectly fine, but I don't doubt Grace's assessment for a second. "I, uh—yeah, you're probably right."

  The embarrassment deepens as I realize what I have to admit. "Would you... could you show me how to sharpen it properly? I never really learned the right technique. Never, well, used it enough that I needed to practice sharpening it, and always did something wrong so avoided practissing after a while."

  The admission stings more than it should. Three years at a survival school, and I never learned how to properly sharpen a knife. But then again, that's what happens when you're kept in the back office handling paperwork while everyone else is out doing the actual survival stuff since you can't fucking see.

  Grace studies my face, her green eyes unnervingly perceptive. "You are experiencing shame. I can smell it on you. This emotional response is unnecessary and tactically inefficient."

  I can't help but smile despite my embarrassment. Only Grace would describe shame as "tactically inefficient."

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  "It's just—I work at a survival school, Grace. I feel like I should know this stuff, even if I am usually in the back office."

  Grace steps closer, her movement fluid and controlled. "I will demonstrate proper technique. Hand-over-hand instruction will be most efficient for transmitting muscle memory. Is this acceptable to you?"

  My pulse jumps slightly at the suggestion. Grace offering to initiate physical contact is rare enough to be significant. "Yes, that's fine. Probably easier that way anyway. But if you're uncomfortable at any point—"

  "I will inform you immediately," she states with absolute certainty. "I do not offer what I am unwilling to provide."

  I nod, accepting this as the truth it clearly is. "Thank you for filtering out my parents earlier, by the way. When I asked about your homeland."

  "You requested discretion. I complied." She says this as if it's the simplest thing in the world, making me wonder why other people in my life have found such straightforward honesty so challenging.

  Grace retrieves a small whetstone from her pocket—one I didn't even know she carried—and gestures for me to sit on one of the stone benches. I comply, and she positions herself beside me, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from her despite the cold evening air.

  "Your embarrassment remains unnecessary," she says, taking my hand holding the knife. Her touch is precise, fingers applying just enough pressure to guide without constraining. "You require training in a skill. You have requested that training. There is no shame in this."

  "I guess you're right," I concede, focusing on the strange sensation of her hand covering mine. "It just feels like something I should already know."

  "The past cannot be altered," Grace states simply. "Only present actions matter. Hold the blade at this angle." She adjusts my grip, her fingers repositioning mine with surgical precision.

  "Approximately twenty degrees," she explains, guiding my hand to make the first stroke against the whetstone. "Consistent pressure and angle maintenance are essential. Feel how the metal connects with the stone."

  I focus intently on the sensation, trying to commit the exact angle and pressure to memory. Grace's hand remains steady over mine, her breathing calm and measured against my back.

  "Begin with the heel of the blade," she instructs, her voice close to my ear. "Move toward the tip in a single, fluid motion. Like this."

  She guides my hand through several passes, the metal making a soft, satisfying sound against the stone. I'm hyperaware of her proximity, of the careful way she maintains exactly the contact needed for instruction and nothing more.

  "Each stroke should feel the same," Grace continues. "The blade remembers inconsistency. Your muscles must learn the precise movement until it becomes automatic."

  We continue like this for several minutes, her hand guiding mine through the repetitive motions. The process is almost meditative, and I find myself relaxing into the rhythm of it, focusing on the tactile sensations rather than my earlier embarrassment.

  "Now, maintain this angle while I release your hand," Grace instructs. "Continue the motion independently."

  She withdraws her touch, and I find myself missing the contact immediately, though I keep the knife moving as directed.

  "Good," she says after observing several passes. There's no effusive praise, no unnecessary encouragement—just a simple acknowledgment of competence achieved. Somehow, it means more than any enthusiastic compliment could.

  "After completing one side, flip the blade and repeat the process," she instructs. "The same angle, the same pressure, the same motion. Similarity breeds similarity."

  I follow her directions, trying to mirror the precision of her earlier guidance. When I finish, Grace takes the knife from my hand, examining the edge with critical assessment.

  "Acceptable for initial instruction," she states, returning the knife to me. "With regular practice, your technique will improve."

  "Thank you," I say, genuinely grateful for both the lesson and her matter-of-fact approach. "With the batoning from yesterday, I do know the basic technique. I'm just asking you to help refine it—especially finding the grain. You seemed to just know exactly where to place the knife."

  Grace nods once, accepting this clarification. "Finding the grain is a sensory skill that translates well to your capabilities. Visual input is useful but unnecessary for optimal performance. Would you prefer to practice without visual assistance?"

  The question catches me off guard, but she's right—practicing by touch alone would make the skill more reliable in all conditions. "Yes," I decide. "Let me try it that way."

  I close my eyes while consciously suppressing the vigger that allows me to see. The world shuts off, a familiar sensation that's both comforting in its familiarity and slightly anxiety-inducing after experiencing sight.

  "Good," Grace says, her voice now my primary reference point. "Take this piece first."

  She places a small log in my hands—oak, I think, based on the weight and bark texture. Its surface is cool and rough against my fingers.

  "Begin by orienting the wood," she instructs. "Find the end grain first—the circular patterns where the log was cut across the trunk."

  My fingers explore the cut end of the log, feeling the subtle ridges and depressions.

  "Now, run your fingers along the length of the log," Grace continues. "Note the subtle ridges beneath the bark. These follow the grain direction."

  I do as she instructs, surprised by how much detail I can feel now that I'm focusing solely on touch. There's a definite directionality to the wood, subtle patterns my fingers can trace from one end to the other.

  "The grain is not perfectly straight," Grace explains, her hand wrapping around mine again to guide my exploration. "Feel how it spirals slightly? This is characteristic of oak under certain growing conditions."

  Her fingers press mine against a barely perceptible pattern in the wood's surface. Without sight to pull my attention away, the sensation becomes incredibly vivid—like reading braille, each tiny variation conveying important information.

  "Now," Grace says, moving my hand to a specific point on the log, "press here, applying firm but controlled pressure. What do you feel?"

  I concentrate on the sensation, pressing my fingers against the spot she's indicated. "There's a... give to it? Like it's slightly softer right there?"

  "Yes," Grace confirms. "Natural separation planes exist throughout the wood. Some are obvious—knots, visible cracks. Others are subtle, detectable only through careful pressure assessment."

  Her hand guides mine down the length of the log, stopping at several points. "Here, here, and here," she says, pressing my fingers against each spot. "Feel the difference? These are optimal splitting points. The wood's internal structure is already partially separated along these planes."

  I focus intently on the sensations, trying to commit them to memory—the subtle give, the almost imperceptible difference in resistance that marks these natural weakness lines.

  "Different woods present different challenges," Grace continues, replacing the oak with what I think is pine. "This has straighter grain, fewer irregularities. The separation planes will be more evenly distributed."

  We repeat the process with the pine log, then with several other varieties. Each has its own distinctive feel, its own pattern of strengths and weaknesses. With each example, Grace guides my hands with precise movements, teaching me to read the wood's hidden structure through touch alone.

  "When batoning," she explains after we've examined several specimens, "place your blade precisely along these natural separation planes. The wood will split with minimal resistance, requiring less force and creating cleaner breaks."

  She places the oak log back in my hands, positioning my fingers at one of the spots we identified earlier. "Place your knife here, with the blade aligned parallel to the grain direction we mapped."

  I position the freshly sharpened knife as instructed, feeling unusually confident despite working blind. The knife's edge seems to naturally find the weakness point we discovered, settling into place as if the wood itself is guiding it.

  "Now," Grace says, her voice steady and assured, "strike with controlled force. Remember—identification, not power, creates optimal results."

  I hold the wood against the stump we used as a work surface, position the knife, and bring the batoning stick down with a measured tap. The knife sinks in deeper than I expected from such a light strike. Three more taps and the wood splits cleanly along the line we identified, separating with a satisfying crack.

  I open my eyes, surveying the results with both pride and surprise. The split is cleaner than any I've produced before, following the grain perfectly from end to end.

  "That was incredible," I breathe, running my finger along the smooth surface of the split wood. "It's like the wood wanted to come apart right there."

  "All materials have natural integrity points and natural separation points," Grace explains, her expression unchanged though I detect a hint of satisfaction in her voice. "Successful manipulation requires identifying and exploiting these existing structures rather than imposing external force patterns."

  I can't help but smile at her technical description of what basically amounts to "work with the wood, not against it." It's so perfectly Grace—taking an intuitive concept and expressing it with scientific precision.

  "Can I try another one?" I ask, already reaching for a larger piece of pine.

  Grace nods, watching as I repeat the process—feeling for the grain, identifying the natural separation planes, positioning the knife along them, and applying measured force. The wood splits exactly as anticipated, requiring minimal effort despite its larger size.

  "Your adaptation to this technique is efficient," Grace observes as I split a third log with similar success. "You apply new knowledge with minimal repetition requirements."

  Coming from her, this is high praise indeed. "Thanks. It helps having a good teacher."

  We continue for several more pieces, my confidence growing with each successful split. Eventually, I set down the knife and batoning stick, flexing my fingers to relieve the slight stiffness from working in the cold.

  "Dave mentioned an overnight winter camping trip during yesterday's visit," Grace says unexpectedly. "You expressed interest but also reservation. Why?"

  The question catches me off guard, but I've grown accustomed to Grace's conversational pivots—moving from one topic to another with neither warning nor transition, following whatever thread of inquiry has captured her attention.

  "Yeah, it's something Northern Edge offers to advanced students," I explain, rubbing my hands together for warmth. "Three days in the deep woods during winter conditions, building emergency shelters, finding food, maintaining core temperature—the whole survival experience."

  Grace nods, processing this information. "You have the desire to participate but have not done so. Why?"

  I sigh, looking down at the split logs around us. "Honestly? I was afraid of embarrassing myself. Everyone else who goes has either military training or serious outdoor experience. I didn't want to be the blind guy who couldn't pull his weight when everyone else would be pulling more then their own."

  "Your visual limitation no longer exists," Grace points out, head tilting in that way she has when she's curious about something or trying to figure something out.

  "True," I acknowledge with a small smile. "But three days ago, it did. And even now, I don't have the experience the others do."

  "Experience is acquired through exposure to challenging conditions," Grace states matter-of-factly. "Avoidance prevents acquisition."

  I can't argue with her logic. "You're right, as usual. I guess I can't really use that excuse anymore anyway."

  Grace is silent for a moment, her gaze fixed on the woods beyond our fence. "I would be interested in observing this training exercise," she says finally. "Dave's approach to survival instruction likely contains elements both familiar and unfamiliar to my experience."

  "You want to go on the overnight trip?" I ask, surprised by her interest.

  "Yes. The opportunity to compare methodologies has tactical value." She pauses, then adds, "Additionally, I could assess ways to improve their current protocols based on extreme condition experience."

  I grin. "Dave would probably love that, actually. He's always looking to make the program more authentic and challenging."

  "Would you accompany us?" Grace asks, her eyes meeting mine directly. "Your established relationship with Dave and the others would facilitate smoother integration of new methodologies. I have met them only once, while you have known them for three years."

  Her reasoning makes perfect sense, but there's something in the way she asks that makes me wonder if there's more to it. Is she actually saying she'd be more comfortable with me there? The thought creates a warm feeling in my chest despite the cold afternoon air.

  "I'd like that," I say, smiling. "It would be fun to finally do the trip, especially with you there."

  Without thinking, I start to raise my arms for a hug, then catch myself midway and lower them back to my sides. The aborted movement is awkward enough that Grace notices, her head tilting slightly in that way that indicates she's processing something new.

  "You frequently initiate physical contact, then stop yourself," she observes. "This happens most often when you appear pleased or grateful. Why do you value physical touch so much? Your family demonstrates similar tendencies."

  The question makes me pause, really considering something I've never had to actually explain before. I lean back against the stone seating, thinking about how to explain it.

  "Audio can come from anywhere," I begin slowly, trying to put words to something I've always just felt. "It can be a recording, can be from outside, from a dozen different places. But touch?" I look up at her, searching for understanding. "Touch means someone has to be close to you. They have to want to be that close. It means they're real, and they're present, and they're... there."

  I shrug, feeling like I've only captured a fraction of what I mean. "That's about as well as I can explain it. Though I'll probably think of a dozen more reasons right after we finish talking. Usually how these things go."

  Grace considers this, her expression thoughtful. "Your explanation has merit. Physical proximity does confirm presence in ways other sensory inputs may not."

  "On the one hand, I don't fully understand your aversion to touch," I continue, wanting to be honest with her. "Hugs, hands on shoulders—they've always meant safety to me. But on the other hand," I meet her eyes directly, "if I had mainly been touched when people were trying to stab me, or..." I hesitate, not wanting to bring up the darker possibilities she's, come right out and said whithout actually doing that, "well, hurt me in other ways, I probably wouldn't like it much either."

  I run a hand through my hair, feeling the cold strands between my fingers. "I don't need to understand why you don't like being touched. I just need to understand that you don't like it, and not keep trying to touch you instinctively like I've been doing." I smile ruefully. "Thanks for not actually stabbing me all those times, by the way. They say getting blood out of shirts is a real pain, you know?"

  "I would not harm you without significant justification," Grace states, though there's something almost like humor in her tone. "Your touch attempts have been clearly non-aggressive."

  We sit in comfortable silence for a while, watching our breath form clouds in the chilling air. The sky has darkened considerably since we came outside, stars beginning to peek through the urban light pollution above us.

  "Carter Blackwood approached me during yesterday's game," Grace says suddenly, her voice measured and precise. "He has deduced the nature of our connection and your visual transformation."

  My stomach drops. "What? How much does he know?"

  "He observed the changes in your movement patterns and visual tracking capabilities," she explains. "Military observation training allowed him to identify inconsistencies. He has inferred a connection between my arrival and your vision restoration."

  I process this information, anxiety bubbling in my chest. "Did he say anything about telling anyone else? My parents?"

  "No. He expressed no intention to share this information." Grace's eyes meet mine with unusual intensity. "He also provided... perspective that requires consideration. I will not share the specifics of this conversation yet. However, he does not represent a current threat."

  The cryptic response is frustrating, but I've learned that pushing Grace rarely yields results. She'll share when she's ready, not before, and she's always got a reason for not. Least this one doesn't involve trauma from her homeworld, so there's that.

  "Okay," I sigh, trusting her assessment. "Let me know if that changes or if there's something I should be worried about."

  "I will," she confirms with a small nod and a flicker of what I think is relief in those forest-green eyes.

  Mom's voice calls from the back door, announcing dinner will be ready in ten minutes. I stand, gathering the split wood to return to the pile.

  "Thank you for the lesson," I say, genuinely grateful for both the skills she's taught me and her patience in doing so. "It's amazing how much difference the right technique makes."

  "Efficiency is not accidental," Grace replies, helping me stack the wood with precise movements. "It emerges from proper understanding of underlying principles."

  As we head back toward the house, I find myself reflecting on how quickly she's become an integral part of my world. Less than a week ago, I was blind and alone. Now I can see, and this extraordinary woman is teaching me to perceive the world in ways I never imagined possible—finding the hidden grain in wood, yes, but also understanding the underlying structures of everything around us.

  I wonder what other lessons await as we continue this strange journey together, and for the first time in years, I find myself genuinely excited to discover what tomorrow might bring.

  ---Healer---

  I stand in the space between realities, watching as Jason and Grace return to the house for dinner. Their silhouettes merge with the golden light spilling from the doorway, Grace moving with that predatory grace that marks her as something beyond ordinary, Jason with the careful steps of someone still adjusting to sight after a lifetime without visual input. My chest aches with an emotion I can't quite name—not hope, exactly. Relief? Perhaps. Something more complex, tinged with the bitter knowledge of my own culpability. Said being well and truly proven when instead of Grace eateing the barries from my plant, the kitten did. How exactly she ate all of them considering I grew it spasifically designed so Grace would be able to eat the hole plant's worth and have a full meal? Don't know, but I'm a man talking to an audience about a different varient of myself and a woman from another reality, so I'm not going to try to figure out the reasons for that. Make my head hurt. I just fix peole and grow shit, man. You want to talk about physics? Ask DR Jason. No, not that one. The other one. The one who's not affiliated with the House of Flesh and is as such, bat-shit fucking insain.

  The crown hums against my temples, its living tendrils pulsing with the rhythm of my thoughts. It senses my distress, responding with subtle vibrations meant to soothe. The tiny flowers embedded in its surface open and close in agitated patterns, mirroring my internal turmoil.

  I caused this. Not directly, perhaps, but in the way a spark causes a forest fire. My rage all those years ago set events in motion, and Grace became collateral damage in a vendetta that was never truly about her. Not this version, anyway. Not for centuries, at minimum, so might as well be a different varient at that point. The guilt sits heavy in my gut, a cold stone that no amount of divine power or Eddara's hugs, as my Mia calls them, can dissolve.

  "Brooding again, gardener?"

  The voice cuts through my thoughts, familiar as my own yet carrying a harder edge. I turn to see Warrior stepping through the veil between worlds, reality rippling around him like water disturbed by a stone. He looks exactly like the man who entered that cave five minutes before I did—blind, bitter, scarred by a world that had never shown him mercy. But where I found life and growth, he found battle and blood. The divergence of our paths is written in the set of his shoulders, the calluses on his hands, the wounds that never quite healed properly. Exactly as he likes it.

  "What troubles you, brother?" he asks, Inherjel-healed eyes finding mine unerringly, as they always do. "The lord of battle asks on behalf of the consort of life herself."

  I smile thinly at his theatrical phrasing. Warrior has always had a flair for the dramatic, styling himself as Kylia's champion while I serve Eddara. Two sides of the same coin, life and death, locked in eternal balance. Then again, he and Kylia do care for each other. Not like me and Eddara, but they care. That's enough. I am Eddara's champion. Warrior, my brother even among the brotherhood, is Kylia's chozen through battle, blood and blade. For men like us? Men who are brothers even among varients? I can understand his contentment better than most.

  "This Grace," I say, gesturing toward the house, "was stolen away from her original timeline. The Legion searched her homeworld extensively, but found only whispers—a pure-white golem in a butler's uniform, a small girl tucked under one arm." I run my fingers through my hair, dislodging the crown slightly before adjusting it. "I ordered them to stand down eventually. The Mia of that world was found—the woman who was meant to be Grace's caretaker half dead and screaming. But Grace herself had vanished completely."

  "Strange," Warrior muses, his head tilted in that characteristic way we all share when puzzling through something complex. "First Hate mentioned nothing of this when I spoke with him."

  "And yet," I reply, nodding toward the house where Grace and Jason have disappeared inside, "she's here now, on Jason's world, walking the path of the companion. The one Grace that started everything."

  My words hang in the air between us, weighted with significance that echoes across timelines and realities. The original Grace—the first pebble in the avalanche that reshaped the multiverse. Her disappearance should have been impossible; the consequences, incalculable. Now, she is here. Now, she will walk the path of the companion to a man who will, in time, become one of us. Join our counsul. Take a name and role and aspect among our. Paladin would violently reject the word pantheon, but isn't it at this point? Each has made our own people, in a way. If not outright, then as much as that word has any weight. Me and my legion. Hunter and his hounds. Jar and his brothers. Warden's, well. Warden. Durge and his shadows and deathblades. Protector and his men of stone.

  "When will the brotherhood make contact?" Warrior asks, changing the subject with characteristic abruptness. "They need to do so soon, if the pattern holds. Sisterhood won't contact Grace till she does something sutibly possessive, stabby and bitchy. Marry's words, though at least three of them have technically broken that, Marry included."

  I sigh, feeling the weight of responsibility press down on my shoulders. "I'm not certain. Jar and Durge's conflict remains unresolved, and while neither would actually come to blows during a Council meeting, Jason doesn't know that." I gesture again toward the house. "He would only see two incredibly powerful beings ready to kill each other, with himself caught in the middle. The others—Jar and Durge included—won't risk that."

  I pause, feeling the familiar ache that comes with speaking about other versions of ourselves. "He is a Jason, after all, a shattered mirror reflecting all of us, and we cannot—will not—hate our kin. That's not how Jasons work." My voice softens, almost speaking to myself now. "We help. We heal. Sometimes, we kill. We hate those who harm our warmth, our reason—the ones who give us something other than emptiness and cold. But hate others of our kind? Never. We know ourselves too well, hate ourselves, remember hateing ourselves too much to hate another of our kin."

  The crown on my head pulses in agreement, its tendrils tightening briefly against my temples before relaxing again. My Eddara's gift resonates with truth, always. One of the many, many things she has given me over the centuries.

  "This Jason will eventually realize what Durge did," Warrior says, his voice dropping to a dangerous rumble. "He will not take it well. Not when Grace has become his reason." His blind eyes seem to fix on some distant point, seeing memories I can only imagine. "Consider what I did to the one who killed my Kylia, though it took me years to finally realize she was my reason. That woman who made me more than just a depressed, useless blind man." His hands clench into fists at his sides. "Jason will not let this lie. He fundamentally can't, unless Grace specifically asks him to, and she won't. She can't. Not when it means so much to him. And Jason will know that at his core."

  The truth of his words settles between us like a physical presence. I know firsthand what happens when a Jason loses his reason—the darkness that follows, the violence that erupts from a heart broken beyond repair. I've seen it play out across countless timelines, witnessed the devastation that follows when a Jason's warmth is extinguished. Hell. All of this is directly because I thought my warmth would be extinguished, a thousand marble men spawned from my rage and protective instinct, and thank fuck for the second one, and Mia. Always Mia.

  The air shifts again, reality bending to accommodate another arrival. Paladin steps through, his cane tapping a precise rhythm against nothingness. Unlike Warrior and me, he stands tall and confident, blindness a strength rather than a limitation. Lucerna gleams in his hand, the living sword that chose him as her wielder. Then more.

  "Durge was clear," Paladin states without preamble, his voice carrying that peculiar resonance that comes from speaking across dimensions. "He will not resist Jason's judgment, if Jason can best him and has the will for it."

  "Cold comfort," Warrior mutters, but Paladin merely smiles, serene in his absolute certainty, the bastard.

  Another ripple in reality announces Traveler's arrival, his form materializing with less definition than the others—forever caught between worlds, never fully present in any single timeline. His appearance shifts subtly as we watch, features blurring and resolving in an endless cycle of transformation. Would love to know how he does that, though. Makes all the kids laugh, and they need more of that.

  "How did Durge put it?" Traveler asks, his voice echoing as if coming from multiple throats at once. "I believe he had a specific way of phrasing his... resignation to fate."

  Something strange happens then—a resonance builds between us, five versions of one man standing in the space between worlds. The crown on my head vibrates with increasing intensity, its flowers opening fully as power flows through the connection. When we speak, it is with one voice from five mouths, a single man's will, a single man's pledge:

  "In ash and dust, my duty done. A mortal flame, eclipsed by the sun. For her I burn, for her I fade. The sacrifice, for her dream is paid."

  The words hang in the air like smoke, Durge's oath, given directly before Marry, a child then broke his heart echoing across realities. I feel them resonate within my chest, a truth so fundamental it transcends our differences. For all his violence, his cold justice, Durge understands the core of what makes us who we are—the willingness to sacrifice everything for those we cherish. For those who make us better than burdens, than broken blind men who've given up on life.

  "Can I join the Council?" Warrior asks suddenly, his voice breaking the solemn moment. "Technically, I'm not a Jason. Not anymore." There's a vulnerability beneath his gruff question that catches me off guard—a longing for connection that persists despite everything he's become.

  I step forward, placing my hand on his shoulder. The crown on my head extends a delicate tendril, its tiny flowers stretching toward him in recognition. "You are a brother to us," I say softly. "Kin to us. Blood to us."

  Paladin nods, Lucerna gleaming with agreement. "Different paths, same origin. The Council accepts all versions of ourselves, regardless of the names we've taken."

  "The boundaries between us are more permeable than you think," Traveler adds, his form rippling like water. "All rivers eventually reach the same sea." Before with a shrug: "also, well. We really do need a tank for our next TTRPG game, and Jar wants to try something other than a tank, so." He shrugs, then grins. "Battlemaster or champion, big guy?"

  Warrior's expression shifts, something almost like peace settling over his features. He nods once, accepting our words without further argument.

  We stand in silence for a moment, five versions of one man linked by forces beyond mortal understanding. Then, as if responding to some unheard signal, we step back from each other. Reality bends around us, timelines reaching out to reclaim their wayward travelers.

  I feel the pull of my own world—Eddara waiting in her garden, my golems standing sentinel, the responsibilities I've shouldered as her chosen consort. But before I surrender to that pull, I cast one last look at the warm house where Jason and Grace sit down to dinner, unaware of our presence or the cosmic forces that have brought them together.

  "Be worthy of her," I whisper, though I know he cannot hear me. "Be stronger than I was. Give her the humanity we, all of us, took."

  Then we fade from this reality without further comment, each returning to our own worlds, our own lives, our own reasons. The space between realities seals behind us, leaving nothing but a momentary shimmer in the air to mark our passage.

  In the house, Jason laughs at something Grace has said, the sound carrying through the window and across dimensions—a bright note of joy in a multiverse too often defined by darkness. And for a moment, despite everything, I feel something like hope.