Grace catches him out of the corner of her eye five minutes before she dares look up. It's not the first time she'd imagined Harold is stood there, although maybe it's happened less since she left New York, but every time before it had just been someone else, some shadow at the edges of her vision and wishful thinking. After the detectives had gotten her away from New York, part of her was sure that Harold was still alive and he'd somehow got caught up in something beyond what even his ever-cryptic way of talking about work could have prepared him for. But this time, he doesn't go away. He stays stood there, looking like he's going to take a step forward but stopping himself every time. She refuses to let herself look up, even after all this time. This time, he has to take the first step. She'd told him that, no matter what, she'd be there, that she'd understand, but he has to make that effort first this time, after so long.
And he finally does, after just standing there watching her paint for so long. Grace can't stop the smile that starts to form, the shock that he's real, solid, alive.
Harold looks at her with eyes a thousand years older than the last time she saw them even though it's only been six but, slowly, his expression starts to warm up, become less fearful and more like the man she remembers and loves. He smiles back, a small, nervous gesture as if waiting for her approval, and takes another couple of stiff, limping steps towards her.
Grace doesn't even put her paint down. She closes what's left of the gap between them and throws her arms around him, half just reassuring herself that he's actually real. He stiffens even more for a second, then relaxes as much as his body seems to allow, wrapping his arms around her waist.
He starts to speak, stutters, a million excuses and reasons on his lips but stops, then takes a deep breath and tries again.
"Hello."