This is all he says. He smiles. No need for you to ask now -- this memory is his world, anything more is superfluous. So you leave him by the fireplace, and outside the storm is like a flood, surging in waves, torrents. You are already wet, but with a quick step and a spreading of arms and legs, you are off across the valley, the speed and your momentum blasting you dry within seconds, the raindrops attacking in their well-ordered droves, failing to get close to even the coat you wear. The sky kicks at you -- you kick back, soaring and diving, young again, unmindful of destination or need or objective, and even the myriad voices from beyond the clouds and rain that rail at you are of no conse-quence. You have reached the height of your climb, and the valley below is just a dot, a smudge on a canvas. Intoxicated with your own beauty, your power, you know you could remove all mountains with an utterance, rack Lin Page 21 this entire world with a shout. But all at once the rain ceases, and the dark valley below resolves itself into a single speck of light, the fire inside the cottage, where the Stranger lies. Seized with apprehension, you plummet back to earth, to the cottage, through its roof, shattering in an instant what centuries of rain has failed to do, and land on the cottage floor, swatting aside falling debris, looking into the sallow face of the Stranger, still smiling even though his body is now cold and rigid, yet so ruddy in the firelight. You want to yell, but the breath is caught, like thoughts that are fleeing your grasp. Were you flying? Was it raining? Resolution eludes you, like the fire that dances on the Stranger's dead face. He is here and not here. He is not leaving, and not returning. You are certain of it, choked by that knowledge, and with a whoosh the excess water perched on the shattered ceiling falls, smothering the last flames.