"The heart's dead are never buried." Samuel Hoffenstein
Clarice's breathe catches in her throat when he first comes into her view. The sight of Hannibal, as he stands there in the doorway, dumbfounds her. She rises to her feet instinctively. Once standing, she remains as motionless as he does. They look at each other in silence.
Hannibal holds the shrouded form of an individual in his arms. The maroon color of his eyes takes on a deep hue. He shifts his posture slightly as he reaches to release a corner of the fabric covering the person. The cloth seems to drop away in slow motion.
The first perception that comes to Clarice is one of scent. The air waifs with the fragrance of birch, talcum powder and sweat as it reaches Clarice's nostrils. The aroma jogs memories long put away in her mind. The shimmer of fiery red hair comes into her vision. Clarice's knees buckle; she reaches out to grasp at the arm of the divan to steady her self. The platinum band that encircles the wrist of the person confirms her identity.
"Yael." Clarice speaks in a near whisper. "You have found Yael."