The breeze that blows through the open window, pushing the soft linen curtains into a tango, is the only evidence of life in the small bedroom. That, and, of course, the discarded leather jacket thrown haphazardly onto the side of a chair. And perhaps the floral aroma of a burning candle mixed with the woody musk belonging to one Wil Ohmsford. But that's it. Nothing else, absolutely nothing at all, gives reason for life.

For the owner of the jacket, and the musk, sits outside. Wil sits cross-legged on the ground, back against a fallen log. A butterfly flutters past him, a brilliant blue. He fiddles with his healing stones, nimble fingers rolling them. He listens as they 'clink' satisfyingly. The coolness of the breeze that flows through his healer's garb, an off-white tunic with a hood that hid his pointed ears, contrasts perfectly against the heat of the sun beating down on him.

He spends hours a day like this, watching nature silently. It helps ground him; and he savors the connection he feels every time he digs his fingers into the dirt, when he hears the birds sing around him. A sequoia tree looms over him, leaves rustling. He envies it's sturdiness.