Curze fell silent.
Those brief, heartfelt words were like a pebble dropped into a deep pool, sending faint yet lasting ripples across the frozen lake of his heart.
The warmth of his foster mother's palm seeped through his skin and into his bones, as though seeking to dispel the chill that had soaked into his soul from Nostramo's dark alleys and his endless, blood-soaked visions.
In this carefully recreated corner of the past, beside the warm, flickering simulated fire, beneath his foster mother's calm and peaceful gaze, the Night Haunter who struck terror into countless worlds on the fringes of the Galaxy, the lord of the Eighth Legion burdened by a heavy duty and cruel foresight, allowed himself to lay everything down for a moment.
Slowly, almost awkwardly, he leaned forward, his towering frame so often bowed beneath the weight he carried.
His long black hair slipped from his shoulders, veiling half his face.
He did not embrace her as an ordinary son might. Instead, with an almost reverent gesture tinged with attachment, he gently rested his forehead against Teresa's knees.
His cold forehead, so often wracked with pain by his visions, touched the rough yet soft fabric over his mother's legs and felt the steady, living warmth beneath it.
Teresa showed no surprise or discomfort.
She simply stopped her mending and naturally raised a hand, marked by the years yet still nimble, to rest gently on Curze's thick, slightly cool black hair with a rhythm and pressure remembered from long ago.
Her strokes were slow and gentle, her fingertips passing through his hair and occasionally brushing his scalp, carrying a rhythm that seemed capable of soothing the soul.
One stroke, then another.
Just as she had decades ago in that dark, drafty little shack on Nostramo that could barely