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That hallway spoke of his story between wooden frames. And a photograph of his father smiled at him from the wall, bringing him back to the day when… what? What was his little mind recalling? Was he remembering or imagining? Jaime snorted inwardly; he knew something was wrong.

And a sudden spark of understanding opened the way to the vertigo of panic, shaking his body in a shiver.

That wasn’t his dad, and he… he wasn’t a child with wrinkled hands.

But the truth lasted only an instant. Soon, the roar of thunder in the distance drove lucidity back to its usual hiding place.

And there remained his figure, inventing passages of time, a mindless mind with ephemeral memories.