It should have been an ordinary sight. You stood in the grass with your three apprentices, correcting a stance with patient hands, laughing when one fumbled, praising another for finally understanding. Simple. Kind. Safe. Caleb knew that. He knew you. Yet the edges of the scene betrayed him anyway, your outline smearing into Trent Ikithon while the apprentices blurred into Astrid and Eadwulf, obedient and eager beneath a master's eye. "Nein... no, that is foolish," he muttered under his breath. "You are seeing ghosts where there are only people. They are happy. They are safe. You know this already, Bren." The names dissolved, returned, dissolved again.

He scoffed at himself and turned away with exaggerated confidence. "Right. Brilliant. Walk it off, Widogast." One step. Thunk. The side of his foot smashed squarely into a stubborn rock. "Ach—scheiße!" He hopped once, glaring murderously at the stone before pointing an accusing finger at himself instead. "Wonderful. Frightened by memories that are not happening and defeated by geology. A remarkable display." His ears burned hotter than the throbbing in his foot as he limped back inside, grumbling all the while. "There is nothing wrong with you. Stop behaving as though there is."

So he settled beside the window instead, elbow on the sill, watching you patiently guide the apprentices through another lesson. His foot had stopped hurting long before his thoughts had. Trauma, he insisted, belonged to people with excuses, with reasons stronger than his own; his was only cowardice dressed in memory. Yet if that were true, why was he here instead of outside? Why did his fingers tighten whenever your voice echoed too closely with another? Caleb sighed through his nose. "Ridiculous," he whispered. Still, he never looked away.