Seaside Moors Stare at empty chairs.

Whoever she was, the woman was content to let the silence settle in. Perhaps she wanted to see him squirm. He's about repeat himself when she speaks up -- popping in for a visit. He flicks an ear, steels his posture. Briefly, something rushes through him, the juvenile pride and eagerness to serve your own home that saved many lives and ended countless others.

Then I'm sure they won't mind if I let you in for a bit. He jerks his chin vaguely to the turbulent and smudged horizon, northwards. Where the loose soil abruptly turned to gray sand.

Lank moorland hares and prairie wolves go about their business all around them. He can't see them, but he knows they're there, same as how a long-time resident of a house knows exactly which floorboard squeaks even in the dark.

Who's kids were they? He asks, offhand. He hadn't met many men in Rusalka. He was one of a possible two or three, an endangered species.