It was in this state—thin, scarred, with eyes that looked like they'd seen centuries—that he met her.
Eira, sitting in the square, writing in her notebook as if cruelty had never touched her.
"You look like someone who's been to the edge," she said.
Arin's laugh was a broken sound. "The edge? I live there. I rent no house, own no bed. I sleep with ghosts. I eat with rats. I bleed in silence. Tell me, what is there beyond the edge?"
Eira looked at him without flinching. "Beyond the edge is the place where philosophy begins."
He wanted to hit her, to scream, to break her calm. But something in her eyes—a sorrow as ancient as his own—stopped him. For the first time in his life, he felt someone saw him. Not as filth, not as victim, not as madman. But as a man still standing in the ruins of himself.