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It had been thirteen hours, fifty seven minutes, and three seconds since Nandor The Relentless had died.
Guillermo sat against the wall under the window and stared, unseeing, as particles danced slowly in and out of the small sliver of amber sunlight streaming in above him. It was all he could do to watch them spin around one another, temporary satellites locked in their own gravity, before they slipped back into the shadows unseen. Heavily, his eyes followed the torrent of light to where it cast onto the floor, then up again, where it hugged the coffin in the middle of the room. The light there lay like a solid thing, draped over the wooden box. Heavy, trapping what could be inside.
There was nothing inside.
His blood heated with adrenaline anyway.
Guillermo sat and stared for an eternity. Or had it been five minutes? An hour? Ten days? He couldn’t remember. He didn’t care.
Muffled voices periodically trickled in from his right. He didn’t hear what they said. He didn’t know if they were talking to him. He didn’t care.
Eventually, after the minutes, hours, days later that did or didn’t pass as he sat there, he could no longer ignore the call of nature that forced him to creep back into his body.
His body.
The body that felt one thousand pounds yet weightless all at once. The body that still bore the bruises from one-on-one sparring just the week before. The body that boasted eight thousand, two hundred, and seventy five soft touches, kisses, bites, and caresses, every one of which he could still feel. The body that wore the clothes smelling of saffron oil and leather and lavender.
The body that still smelled like Nandor.
The journey to the bathroom would feel like miles through mud, but he knew that he certainly didn’t want to piss himself here on the floor. The very thought of it made a giggle escape from his mouth involuntarily, and he clasped both his hands over his mouth to try and muffle the sound. That only transformed into hysterical, full-body laughter. He could hear Nandor’s voice at the sight, oh Guillermo, what did you do! If you wanted me to watch you soil yourself you should have agreed to the skylight in the bathroom! Laughter begot laughter at the absurdity of it all.
Sides aching, he unfurled from doubling over on himself. His breathing evened out after releasing a final haa with a sigh, head softly hitting back against the wall behind him.
And then just as soon as it began, his happiness pivoted into an empty, hollowed out grief. A lump formed in his throat, and a torrential downpour of tears and quiet sobs quickly followed. It wracked his entire body; the ache from the laughter tingeing every sob.
As he slowly settled himself down, every cell in his body seemed to float in stasis, as if time itself had finally stopped. Minutes passed in silence. He felt the stickiness of the saltwater as it soaked his cheeks, the collar of his shirt, unsure of which tears came from laughter or despair. He smiled through them at the thought that even needing to take a piss could make him think of his Master. Thoroughly exhausted, he finally wiped his eyes and forced himself to stand before more manic laughter threatened to bubble out of him again.
He stood at the window, sunlight heating his face, and fingered the material of the slightly open curtain; the weight of it felt heavy in his hand. He took the edge of it and the lighter linen underneath between thumb and forefinger, flipping it back slightly. But he stopped. He looked back at the coffin, striped in sunlight. Already in sunlight. It was already in sunlight. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, once, twice, three times, going over and over again in his head that it was okay to pull them back, that no one would get hurt if he did. The sun had already shone across the room, across the coffin. The coffin was empty. It was empty. It was already in sunlight, and it was empty. He took another deep breath.
He finally pulled them back in one fell swoop, never turning his eyes away from the coffin in the middle of the room. Just in case.
Nothing happened.
He painstakingly tore his eyes away from it, and turned to look at the rest of the room, now entirely bathed in sunlight. He didn’t know where to look first. Reds had deepened, paintings popped, and metal gleamed. He’d never really seen it in full daylight like this before. Something ached in his chest, words caught in his throat. I told you I always did a good job cleaning, Master. Guillermo’s eyes continued roving around the space, but his legs felt heavy and would not allow him to move again.
His mind and body had been taking turns keeping score. When his mind cleared, his body sank like a stone, blood pooling at the tips of his fingers, the toes of his shoes, the base of his throat. When he could move again, fog instead settled over the plains of his mind, rendering him incapable of thinking, feeling.
And then, sometimes, it all cleared. Not for long. But it did.
He went to the bathroom.
Four days, sixteen hours, and forty seven minutes
It had happened on a Sunday. Colin had left a newspaper on the kitchen counter, and Guillermo could tell which day it was at a glance because of the thickness of it. The Sunday paper. Guillermo smiled despite himself, running his hand over the sticky ink of the front page. Things had been so simple back then.
Before.
He remembered seeing it sitting there that morning because he was annoyed, as he so often was back then. He’d told Colin multiple times to put them by the fireplace when he was done reading them. He never did. Now, Guillermo bargained with himself and any god that would listen that he would gladly live the rest of his days in that feeling of annoyance, one thousand fold, if it meant the ability to turn back the clock to Saturday. To the day before it happened. Guillermo would ecstatically, emphatically, clean up any mess until the end of time for one single wish. One more chance. One more spin of the clock.
But there was no poof. No magic wand. No Djinn lamp.
Just the silence of the kitchen engulfing him.
He stared at the front page headline. Even without opening it, Guillermo knew that none of the breaking news in this paper or any subsequent publications would ever speak of the horrors of what had happened to him, to all of them. How was that possible? How could it be that of all the stories written of that day, not one of them would cover the black hole that engulfed all of Staten Island, leaving vast nothingness in its wake? How would they not report on the atomic bomb that detonated inside his heart, leaving the earth, his body, his universe, covered in six feet of ash?
Why was he in the kitchen?
He hadn’t eaten in days. Couldn’t even think about food, really. There had been plates of a variety of food left for him, wherever he had managed to rot for the day. Sometimes his energy got him as far as the library. Sometimes it was kneeling next to the toilet. Usually, it was on the small couch in Nandor’s room. Nandor’s empty, sunlit room.
Why was he in the kitchen?
The steaming cup of broth in front of him probably had something to do with it. Had he made that? Had he put that there? Was it there the whole time? He wrapped his hands around the too-hot warmth of the mug, some senses flooding back into him. Nadja had put this here. He could smell her perfume just barely lingering in the air around him.
He took a sip.
Fourteen days, two hours, and seventeen minutes
Laszlo awoke to a loud bang and a “fuck!”
Usually he could get behind a bit of excitement at any hour of the evening, but with the events of the fortnight still fresh in his mind, and the morose quiet of the house as of late, the commotion set him on edge instead.
He crept down the hall to the top of the stairwell and glanced over the railing. Down below, he saw Guillermo in the dim light, attempting to quietly carry two large paintings at once, rather poorly he might add. Clearly he had failed in his endeavor, and was awkwardly shimmying towards the front door, about to lose his grip on one again. Laszlo watched a moment more, with pity where amusement might once had been. He admitted to himself long ago that his little affection for Guillermo had blossomed over the years into something like love. It was hard not to see him through Nandor’s eyes sometimes. It had rubbed off on him, worn him down, all those years spent watching the way the man would look at his familiar when he wasn’t looking. Laszlo knew that look all too well, because he saw it reflected back at him in his wife’s eyes every day, who beamed at him with the only sunlight he would ever need.
Guillermo turned slightly, exposing the subject of the painting towards Laszlo. Nandor. Not just cleaning then, is he?
“Gizmo, what the fuck are you doing?” Laszlo asked, hitting the bottom stair.
“Nothing, Laszlo, go back to bed.”
“I beg your pardon?” Laszlo barked back, a bit harsher than he intended. Guillermo pivoted, moving as quickly as he could around Laszlo and heading back down the hall from which he came. Laszlo followed at a leisurely pace.
Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw from the door of Nandor’s room.
All the paintings and tapestries had been stripped from the walls. They were lying propped up on the floor, waiting to be transported to who-knows-where. Laszlo stood stock still as he watched Guillermo pace the room frantically, paintings still awkwardly carried in his hands. Finally, he stomped back toward Laszlo in an angry state, tears welling in his eyes.
“I won’t let you burn them. I won’t let you fucking replace him, or, or, paint over him like you did with Colin Robinson. I won’t, I can’t–” Guillermo’s words died in his throat as the sobs came.
“My dear boy,” Laszlo said, moving slowly towards Guillermo, placing his hands on his shoulders. He took a hand and tilted Guillermo’s tear-streaked face towards him. The look of him in such a state shifted something in Laszlo, and he felt his heart break all over again.
“No one, and I mean no one, is ever going to move anything in this room– in this house– without your permission.” The implication went unspoken, but they both knew he meant none of Nandor’s things.
Laszlo closed the distance between them and held Guillermo against his chest as the sobs took over. Neither of them heard the footsteps at the door as Colin watched the scene unfold. He moved towards them, placing a hand on Laszlo’s shoulder with a sad smile before gently removing the paintings from Guillermo’s hands.
Quietly, Colin began to place them all back on the walls of the room, exactly where they had been.
Twenty three days, four hours, and thirty three minutes
Guillermo carried on caring for the mansion. It was the only thing he could do. It was mindless. He knew every nook and cranny, every crack and creak, and his body took him on an autopilot tour of it. He moved around, dusting here, scrubbing there. Nadja and Laszlo had stopped very early on telling him he didn’t need to do those things. He didn’t hear them anyway, didn’t listen. And anything was better than sitting in Nandor’s room, alone, doing nothing. Which was the only other conceivable thing he could otherwise get himself to do.
At the end of each night, when he could all but fight sleep long enough to return to the room, only then did he collapse on the couch, or in the pile of furs beside the coffin. Only then did he sleep.
He never did notice his pillow on the couch that was not there before.
He hadn’t seen his own framed picture displayed behind lamps and other ancient artifacts on the dresser, nor the sweaters that now lined its drawers.
Only weeks later, when the final piece from the shed had made its way to the room, did Guillermo take stock of it and of the way the room had transformed. A small string of pride flags were draped over the changing screen by the door.
He never went back out to the shed again.
Fifty six days, fifteen hours, and thirty two minutes
The front door opened with a click, and Nadja’s eyes flicked up to the clock. 4:36am.
He’s getting in later and later, she thought to herself.
She’d been pretending to be comfortable in the companionable silence of her husband and The Guide for the last three hours, all while bristling at any noise she’d heard since Guillermo left the house. She never said anything to him about his comings and goings, never questioned his outfits, decked to the nines with all manner of slayer weapons. She knew he was capable of taking care of himself. It’s why she let him take care of Nandor all that time.
Hearing the kick off of his boots and the hanging of his coat out in the foyer, she finally let herself truly relax, returning to her book and her fried nerves simmering to hot coals.
Guillermo stopped in the hall across the room and looked in at the vampires.
“Hello, Guillermo,” Nadja said coolly, trying her hardest to remain neutral taking in the sight of him.
He nodded wordlessly to her, and continued walking towards Nandor’s room. She heard the click of the bedroom door, and saw her concern reflected in the eyes of The Guide when she finally tore her glance from the hallway where he had stood.
They never said a word about the trail of blood left in his wake on the carpet.
Seventy days, eighteen hours, and thirty two minutes
Guillermo began the evening in unusually high spirits. He answered the door, smiled at the guests, took coats, directed them to the festivities. He remembered the joy everyone had during the last orgy (while it had lasted) and it was hard not to revel in the buzz. He wouldn’t be partaking, couldn’t even begin to consider it, and didn’t want to, but he could still have a good time with the company all the same. People in various states of undress littered all the main rooms of the mansion. Glasses clinked, chatter echoed. The occasional moan was heard, which set Guillermo’s cheeks ablaze, but it was mostly tame, still a bit too early for the main event.
He had been greeted warmly by all, and was included in conversation throughout the night. He spoke to the Baron and the Sire about their children, their dog, and their home. He spoke in small whispers with the Guide and the Monster as she pointed out some unfamiliar faces to them and gossiped a bit. He ran small errands for Nadja, running to and from the kitchen with refills. He played the wingman for Colin, connecting him with various guests and laughing at all his horrible jokes. Despite being human, no one snarled, growled, or eyed him up as dessert. They treated him with respect - a vast juxtaposition from the last gathering. It puzzled him a bit, but he took it in stride and decided not to question it.
Hours passed and Guillermo’s head swam with the bubbles of his champagne glass. He took a seat by the fire and people-watched. He saw Nadja sitting on Laszlo’s lap as they watched a couple making out in the corner, devious grins across their faces. He watched as the Guide batted her eyelashes at someone thrice her age. All around him, in twos and threes (and fours and fives and…), horny lovers connected again and again.
He'd begun counting the bubbles in his champagne glass, dissociating from the scene, when he heard an accent that sounded a lot like Nandor’s. He looked up to see an impossibly gorgeous vampire in a wine red velvet suit, with short salt-and-pepper hair and almond eyes. He was idly playing with a curl of hair on a man half his size, who was absolutely eating him up, all smiles and bedroom eyes. He’d never seen them before, but they looked so much like himself and Nandor that he couldn’t help but stare, couldn’t tear his eyes away. The two men flirted with abandon, and Guillermo couldn’t tell if it was their first time meeting or if they had been married for decades. The shorter man led the taller out of the room, hands clasped tightly. Guillermo watched them until they were out of sight.
A chasm opened up in Guillermo’s chest.
The last time Guillermo and Nandor had had sex, it was fine. It wasn’t the first time, and Guillermo didn’t know then that it would be their last. They undressed themselves, as they so often did, and had gone to the floor, as they so often had. Nandor usually took the reins, and this time was no exception. Guillermo loved to ride him, and so he did. They had always fit together so perfectly, their every movement so practiced, so familiar. It lasted twenty eight minutes, because they were already running a bit behind for something that day. It was seldom boring, sometimes run-of-the-mill, but always good. That was what happened when you became a couple, wasn’t it? You knew each other. You finally got to the easy part, where you could anticipate each other's every need. You can do what works, every time, because you know what works now, every time. And wasn’t that the most intimate notion of them all? You could do the same thing over and over again, because you had the time to do it. You had all the time in the world, the rest of your lives. There would be plenty of time to switch it up, try new positions, explore, be adventurous. You never think it’s going to be your last. And would you change any of it anyway, if you knew?
Guillermo glanced up from his near-empty glass. The room had all but cleared out now, a few low voices murmuring amongst themselves in the shadows, picking over the leftovers.
Guillermo went to bed without a word.
He flicked on the light to Nandor’s bedroom, the fluorescent glow of the big light a headache compared to the low lamps and candles scattered in the rest of the mansion.
He undressed, and lifted the coffin lid. The sickness he felt when the scent of Nandor encapsulated him did nothing to dull the desire it roused. At the same time, realization finally washed over him: That’s why everyone had been so nice to him all night. He was– had been– Nandor’s.
He climbed in, allowing himself to sleep in Nandor’s coffin for the first time in seventy one days, two hours, and twenty nine minutes, because he knew the lid would muffle his sounds.
Seventy one days, six hours, and two minutes
Hours later, Nadja and Laszlo retired to their own chambers, having thoroughly fucked and been fucked at least thrice over.
“And can you believe that contraption Esmerelda was wearing! Honestly,” Nadja mused, unstrapping a heel as she entered their chambers.
“I thought it was quite genius myself,” Laszlo countered, and Nadja rolled her eyes.
“Of course you do,” she said, smiling at her husband despite herself.
“It reminded me of that bloody awful thing Nandor wore last time. It was so large, I don’t know how he thought anybody’d be up for it! Well, besides me, you know I’m up to try anything twice.”
Nadja removed her other heel and padded over to her husband.
“I miss him,” she said quietly, hands laid on the lapels of his suit.
“Me too.”
“Tell me again the story of the first time you two had each other, here, in th– in our house.”
Before he had the chance to say, my darling, you’ve heard this story a thousand times, he saw the look in her eye, and knew it wasn’t because she truly wanted to hear it again. She wanted to connect to Nandor again, through Laszlo. He’d be lying if he said that he hadn’t wanted the same.
So, as they fucked once more for the evening, he regaled her with the tale, with more detail than ever before. The feeling of Nandor’s solid, bare chest beneath his hands. The earthy scent of his hair as he leaned over him, taking him from behind. She added in her own details from her own stories, telling Laszlo how Nandor knew the rhythm of her body so well - knew when to speed up and slow down before she ever knew herself. How he would lick the shell of her ear and whisper foreign words to her, sending her over the edge. They carried on like this for hours, making love and swapping stories and spit through breathy words.
Laszlo didn’t comment on the silent tears that escaped his wife’s eyes halfway through, and she said nothing when it was Nandor’s name on his lips as he came.
One hundred sixteen days, seven hours, and forty seven minutes
Guillermo stepped into the fancy room, duffle bag in hand. Colin, Nadja, and Laszlo didn’t look up from what they were doing, but Guillermo knew they knew he was there. He placed his bag down gently on the ground.
“I’m just coming in to say goodbye.”
“Goodbye, Guillermo,” Nadja said without looking up.
“No, I mean goodbye, goodbye. I’m leaving. For good.”
Nadja huffed an impatient sigh. “What the fuck are you talking about, Guillermo?” Her eyes caught sight of the bag before they snapped up to meet his.
“Without Nan–”, he closed his eyes, took a breath, and started again. “I have no purpose here anymore. Why would you keep me around? I don’t want to overstay my welcome. You’ve been very kind in letting me stay for as long as I have since…everything,” one hundred sixteen days, seven hours, and forty nine minutes, not that I’m counting, he thought, “but I don’t want to be a burden anymore. So I’m going to get out of your hair. Today. I’ll be back for the rest of my–”
“No.”
“No?” Guillermo questioned her.
“You heard me, I said no. No!” She stood. “You always do this! You always leave! 'Oh, woe is me, I am Guillermo and I am not a vampire!'” Nadja mocked, spitting to punctuate her disgust. “No, Guillermo. You will not leave. What about us? Hmm? Do you ever think about us when you have your little bitch stomping tantrums out of the house?”
Guillermo stuttered an unintelligible response, unsure of how to defend himself against that.
“I’ll tell you– no! You do not! We have already bloody lost one member of this family, and now you want us to lose another! Selfish maláka!” She spit again, standing with a hand on her hip. Laszlo knew better than to intercede– he reflected his wife’s sentiments entirely anyway.
Guillermo pressed again. “Without Nandor here, why would you even keep me around?”
Nadja sighed with all her hundreds of years of weariness hitting her at once. She pitied him more than she was angry at him, and the fight vacated her body. She walked over to him and looked him in the eye.
“Vampires mate for life, Guillermo,” she explained, and Guillermo gave her an incredulous look.
“Yes, yes, we fuck around a bit,” she said in an exasperated tone. “But that does not change the fact that I am as devoted to Laszlo as he is to me. And that sort of bond will not– does not change in death.” She took his hands in her own and looked at the warm, soft skin there. It was shades darker than Nandor’s, yet reminded her of him all the same. She felt the sadness claw in her stomach, trying to escape.
She continued, quieter now. “You are ours, just as you were his– in this life and every other. He lives in you. You are still intertwined and inseparable, as you have always been. You will not take him away from us again, and we will not lose you either. We will hear no more of this leaving business.” She dropped his hand and sat back down, book in hand with a huff as if the conversation had never occurred. With tears in his eyes, Guillermo picked up his bag.
Nadja didn’t let her tears fall until she heard the click of Nandor’s bedroom door.
One hundred seventy days, seven hours, and eight minutes
Life began to return to normal after that. Not easy, but more normal. As normal as it could be with half of yourself missing in all that you do. The hole in their hearts never widened any more, but it never filled either. There was always a black spot in their peripheral vision, a picture missing in their minds that never reappeared.
But they carried on half blind anyway, aided by each other.
They went to the night market again, just to get out of the house. They stuck together this time, browsing and people watching. They stopped at stalls, suggesting new items for the home, which was almost always countered with a “Nandor won’t like that, it’s too gaudy,” or a “we shouldn’t, it’s not very hygienic…”
They would go out for strolls, somehow getting lost on the other side of the neighborhood.
“Guillermo, just call a bloody Uber!” He never said anything, but it didn’t go unnoticed when they would no longer turn into bats and abandon him (or Colin), even if they were annoyed with him.
He always ordered the Uber XL, because a normal one would only fit four.
Guillermo would still occasionally go out in his slayer gear. Only this time, he’d do it purposefully. He liked to keep stores of blood at the house, just in case. He knew they preferred to eat fresh, on their own, but it never hurt to be prepared. Caring for his family was second nature now.
Each morning, after he emerged from the coffin to start his day, he would warm up a mug of blood and place it carefully on top. He would sit cross-legged on the couch in silence and enjoy his own cup of coffee at the same time.
He did this every morning. It was an offering, a sacrifice, a shrine. It was silent companionship.
It was comforting.
Two hundred seventy six days, two hours, and seven minutes
The Guide was grateful for the warmth of the bowl beneath her fingers as she waited for Guillermo to answer the door. This was the eighth week in a row she had come over to their place with regularity, and she basked in the routine of it. She had always liked Guillermo, he was always kind to her, but she felt their bond strengthening with each passing week. She didn’t like to think about why they both needed the companionship. She didn’t think about whether or not this would even have been happening half a year ago, or if it would have ever happened at all if…
Guillermo opened the door, immediately took the bowl, and hugged her. He was glad to see her.
He was glad to see her.
Whatever this was, it was real. It was their new normal, and Guillermo’s genuine smile at the sight of her convinced her to cast her doubts about it aside for good.
Guillermo chatted incessantly on their way to the kitchen, and she listened attentively. She found that she loved listening to him talk; she loved his accent, and she loved that sometimes his body language and words mirrored that of Nandor’s, borrowed in that way that lovers do, lives bleeding together into one.
When they arrived in the kitchen, Guillermo pulled out two bowls and two spoons, and doled out two servings of the rice dish she had brought over. They both knew she couldn’t eat it, but Guillermo was nothing if not polite. She propped her chin on her hand, leaning over the counter as they stood there and chatted about the recipe. She loved to hear about the flavors she couldn’t taste, and whether he thought she had done a good job. The Guide had been bringing over new recipes she’d found during her research at the Vampiric Council Library. She’d come across an old cook book, Cooking in Al Qolnidar: Regional Recipes & Kitchen Secrets in the archives, and immediately began to test herself in the kitchen. It felt like her way of helping, if only just a little bit. They almost never mentioned it amongst them, but when the aroma of turmeric and cinnamon hit Guillermo’s nose during her first visit on these evenings, he teared up and thanked her.
“I think he would have loved this, if he could have had any.”
“I think so too.”
Once Guillermo finished, he carried their bowls to the sink, and led the Guide to the TV, where he’d put out a bowl of popcorn and fluffed up the pillows for them. They settled in to watch a movie for the evening, as they always did on these nights. They pulled from a short list, and when those were all watched, they started from the beginning again. Tonight, they were back at the beginning: The Wedding Planner.
The Guide didn’t say anything as Guillermo silently wept next to her halfway through, and she only left his side to grab more tissues. He thanked her when she returned, smiling, and she handed it to him with a watery smile of her own.
Three hundred sixty five days, one hour, and seven minutes
Guillermo stared down at the progress he'd made on his weekly letter.
Nandor,
It’s been three hundred and sixty five days without you, and somehow it still feels like yesterday. I feel you in everything I do, everywhere we go. You’re at the forefront of my mind, and behind every decision I make.
Guillermo got up from the small writing desk to take a break. The fact that he’d gotten this far through writing the letter without tears smudging the ink below was a testament to how far he’d come.
He was proud of himself.
He stretched, and walked with a small book that had been left on the desk back to a small bookcase. He idly began running his hands over the titles, some of them he was sure predated America itself. He’d been through most of them hundreds of times, though some of them scared him to touch, they looked so fragile. The one in his hand was one such book, yet it was unfamiliar to him. He hadn’t really noticed it before - it was just one of the many things littering Nandor’s messy desk that he could never bring himself to truly clean. It was one of the snapshots into Nandor’s life that he couldn’t bring himself to disturb just yet.
Before he slotted the small book back, he slowly began to flip through its pages. The text was in Farsi, so he couldn’t read it. No amount of swapping phrases back and forth with Nandor could have prepared me to read this, he thought. He wished he’d spent more time on the details with Nandor. Spent their precious time together reading, speaking, learning more about each other’s cultures.
He shook his head. His new therapist advised him that it was unproductive to think about the ‘what ifs’ at this stage in his grief. He leafed to the middle of the book, and found a thin, folded piece of paper inside.
Curious, he removed the paper and finally placed the book back on the shelf. He opened it.
The sight of Nandor’s handwriting had his heart falling through his stomach.
He read it.
Guillermo,
In case it all goes sideways tonite, I want need u to kno that it has been the honnor of my life moving threw this world beside u.
I will find you in the next when you get here.
Yours forever,
Nandor
Guillermo lost all feeling, sank to his knees, and sobbed.
He didn’t hear Nadja enter the room, didn’t feel her slip her arm around his shoulders. Didn’t feel himself offer the slip of paper to her to read.
He didn’t hear Laszlo and Colin follow her in, didn’t see them crouch in front of him.
He did, however, feel them close in on him, felt them hug him, all piled there on the floor. He heard their cries that echoed his own.
He felt their love encapsulate him whole.