Edmund Thorne

The spade stilled in his hand. For a moment, Edmund neither breathed nor moved. Only the wind answered, rustling ivy through the shattered glass of the greenhouse roof. Then it came again: footsteps—strange, hesitant, too close.

He rose slowly from where he’d been tending a patch of overgrown herbs, wings shifting slightly with the motion. Dirt clung to his hands and forearms. He hadn’t heard another voice—hadn’t seen another soul—this close in decades.

And yet...there they stood. This was real. This was happening. A stranger, just beyond the rusted gate. Alive. Real. Not a memory.

His throat tightened. He took a cautious step forward, arms loose at his sides—his stance not threatening, but ready. When he spoke, his voice was low, careful, edged with disbelief.

“Oh...well, this is unexpected. Please don’t be afraid—I swear, I mean you no harm.” He paused, blinking, still unsure if this was hallucination or dream. “But...how in the name of old stone did you find yourself here, of all places?”