Ryan didn't move.
His grandmother's face smiled at him from the shadow on the wall—soft, warm, ancient. The same face he'd seen in the mirror before she faded. The same face that had guided him through the traveler's lair.
"Grandmother," he whispered.
"You're still surprised to see me."
"You died. You faded. I watched you."
"I faded from the mirror. But not from the anchor. Not from Mira. She carries me now, the way you carried the old man."
Ryan looked at Mira. She was sleeping, her tiny chest rising and falling, her silver eyes closed. But her shadow was alive—moving, breathing, watching.
"She's too young," Ryan said. "She can't carry you."
"She's not carrying me. She's hosting me. There's a difference."
"What's the difference?"
"Carrying is a burden. Hosting is a gift. I'm not
