"He'd sit on the chair opposite us, reclining with a glass of wine. He'd have that amused little smirk on his face."

Era closes her eyes, painting the image with her words.

"An elbow resting on the arm of the chair, hand supporting his head while the other aerates his wine. His awful, slouching posture even as he sits...

"If his presence distracts us his smirk would grow wider. `Oh, no, do go on,` he'd say. " She mimics his intonation perfectly. "We'd grow flustered, and he'd grow more amused. Eventually he'd take pity on us and offer his wisdom, piece by piece, because he was so fond of drawing things out as long as possible."

The wistful, longing way Era speaks is indicative of just how badly her heart still aches over his loss. She falls silent for a moment, pushing aside the grief she has yet to truly work through.

"He disappeared before you had the chance to know him, and without knowing him you could not love him," Era offers. "You had time enough for the seed of it to be planted, but not for it to grow. Without him there to nurture it, the soil that would have supported what sprouted has instead become its grave."