I turn around and there he is.

He stands next to Michelangelo, looking at me with recognition and delight dawning in his eyes. As if he had never been gone at all.

What am I supposed to say to him?

You left us.

Where have you been?

Why did you leave us?

Why did you leave ME?

The recriminations burn trails across my mind but die in my throat. Instead, I step forward, wrapping my arms around him, thinking if I hold tightly enough he can never leave again.

"Donatello," I whisper against his neck. "I knew you'd come back."