Barrow Fields what once was mine

The erne found nothing substantial in her memories about the strange man, either. Not an interaction, not an opinion, and not a name. So she gave a tiny, contrite wag of her tail and went about through the awkward motions of reintroduction. “I am Moorhen,” she told him, hoping he would get the hint and introduce himself in turn. She assumed that he didn’t know her any better than she knew him; she hoped for it, even, because it would be terribly awkward to be remembered better than she could remember in turn.

And, as for why she had returned, the erne let her head tip a little to the side. In thought, but also in silent question. Did she really need a reason why?

“It was time,” she said after a moment of contemplation. “And you? Are you returned or have you lived here all this time?”