They climbed. The stair spiraled up through the tower like a worm's gut, ladder-steps of stone scoured by age. Each turn birthed another scrap of memory into the air: a lullaby whispered by a mother long dead, the stain of blood that never quite leaves a floor, the smell of rain on barley. The tower remembered everything, and some memories did not love to be remembered.
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She looked older and not at all older: hair threaded with the kind of silver that is less about age and more about weather. Her smile was small and perfectly preserved. She did not look surprised to see him. They climbed