A fire. A magnolia tree. A tender clipping toted along with a single suitcase into an apartment where blood pooled across the floor.

Louis is holding so tightly to Lestat's hand that it must be painful. He is so far outside his body; when he lets go of Lestat, it is not to avoid the break of bones, but to take that single step closer, spine straight, eyes dark.

You were still in the building, Armand had said. And now Louis knows what it looks like, has this fragmented piece of what it had been like twisting into his gut.

"Armand," is soft as the ashes the mingle now with rocks rescued from a coffin in the burned out basement of the Théâtre des Vampires. Not asking but acknowledging. Yes, here you are. Yes, you are seen.