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Summary
Wolfwood looks different. Different than even the hundreds of ghosts—threads of shimmering grey shot through his temples and fine lines splintered out around his eyes like someone dragged a feather through damp clay. Like he’s aged almost decade in the year since he—
“Died,” Vash rasps. “You died.”
Wolfwood’s eyebrows shoot up in an expression that Vash has remembered so many times that his own faulty memory rewrote over the real thing.
“This isn’t—how?” he asks, voice warping around the cold static clogging his mouth.
“You ever hear of Jesus Christ?” Wolfwood grins, and it’s exactly the same. Like no time has passed. Like he’s so proud of his stupid joke. Like Vash didn’t lay his still-warm corpse in the ground and bury him on the other side of that building.
Like the inexorable inspiral of a binary star, Vash is drawn back to the orphanage in December and the unexpectedly empty grave of his dearest friend.
Or, Vash and Wolfwood and all their tomorrows.