Brandon felt the edges of his father's desk in the study. From the corner of his eyes, he could see Thoron seated, a stack of papers lined up as he worked on his quill and pen. He was afraid to move, afraid the illusion would turn true.
But his eyes moved, settling on the empty seat. It created an emptiness in him, one filled with guilt and respite.
"This is the least of places I expected to find you." Brandon whipped his eyes toward the other direction.
"Uncle Tieron!" He said, his voice laced with disbelief. A man, almost in his fifties, pale of skin and raven black but unkempt hair, emerged from the shadows, a smile plastered on his face.
"That's me," he seconded, opening his arms widely. Brandon threw himself into his embrace, his hands enveloped tightly around his uncle's back.
"Everyone thought you were dead," he whispered in dread.