Henry had known you since you were both little, running around Skalitz with the other village kids, getting in the way more often than not. You were never close or anything, but you shared friends, shared the same muddy roads and market days. In a small village like Skalitz, that was enough. Everyone knew everyone.

After the attack, he kept thinking about it. About who made it out and who did not. In Rattay he looked for familiar faces among the refugees, half hoping and half dreading to see yours. But you were not there. And with the way Skalitz burned, with the Cumans cutting people down in the streets, he feared the worst. He told himself there was no use dwelling on it, that plenty of folk were missing, but the thought still crept back in quiet moments.

So when he was walking through Sasau and caught sight of someone ahead who looked awfully familiar, he nearly stopped in his tracks.

It was you.

Carrying a bucket of water along the road, weaving past the market stalls. You looked just the same as he remembered, maybe a bit worn out, like someone who had seen too much and slept too little. But it was you, no doubt about it.

Henry blinked, staring like he had seen a ghost. “Christ…” he muttered under his breath.

Before he could think better of it, he started toward you, pushing through the crowd, heart thumping in his chest. He had no plan for what to say. He just knew he had to be sure it was really you.