When he first found me, it was like coming home. I was lying in one of the public gardens, which wasn't something that he ever brought up until much, much, later. He came into my head, just for a moment, and then held out his hand. I grasped his. It was warm, his skin soft. I let him hoist me up into the air. He hadn't said anything to me, yet.
His voice was low, and soothing; it had been a long time since she had let anything soothing, ecpecially the voice of a man that she had never even seen before, "Hello. My name is Charles Xaiver. I was just inside your head for a moment, I'm very sorry about that,"
"Oh, that's fine. How did you know?" I asked, perfectly oblivious to the obvious answer to this question.
He flashed me a daring sort of smile, mocking, even, and briefly looked down at his shoes, before looking up and saying to me, "The flowers around you, have dried up. They're burnt,"
I looked down at the flowers underneath my feet. The tips of the petals were crisp and black, like a like rain had begun to fall, but instead of rain, soot had begun to fall from the sky. He spoke again, his voice barely a whisper, his head moving closer to my ear, "I just looked inside your head, and believe me when I tell you that I can take you somewhere where you can be safe."
And then something truly unusual happened. He put his hand to my cheek, and I was looking into his memories. And I suddenly had unconditional faith in what he was seeing to me. It was as if he had told me all about his life, reading his mother's mind when he was so small he didn't know what the words meant, and finding to little blue girl in his kitchen, but it had all flashed past my mind in less than a second.
I nodded my head.
"Good," he said, "What's your name?"
"Shay. Shay Libson," he offered his hand again. I pretended not to notice it, and walked with him.
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