My little son is almost five. He scrambles along the rush floor with his hands. He pretends he is a bear. And with the fury of his twinkling eyes — like heather strewn about the sky — I almost believe him. He has his father’s ready smile and my reserve — he is the light of my life. Were it not for this, I would rather him be asleep. His little roar wakens me from my dream, a dream of places I had once been, and with the greatest care, he settles into my lap. At times, I wish he wasn’t there. He is the only thing binding me to this lonely place. It is as if I awoke from Edal only to fall into the world of Jeffard’s Cross. The change is barely visible. So now my son, Solis, looks up at me with a demure smile on his face, inching his small hands into mine. I grasp them, almost too tightly. I am holding on to what little I have left. For I named him Solis for that very reason — we are both all we have in the wide world.