Home had been Greenring for so long, that to even say the word would have been to smell the hearth and the black loam no matter how far it truly was. Some of that was still true. Father's laugh, mother's reprimands- she could have told herself she heard them still. Now, home was not wrought of timber or of stone, but of flesh and bone. Home was you. "Would you be cross if I said I am weary? The hour grows late, and the sun is like to set. The cold will come after."