Collins rambled once someone cared to listen, outpouring what seemed every dark feeling he’d kept bottled inside, like the tinctures in Harry’s medical case all tumbling to the shale at once. It pained Harry to hear, for there was little if anything he could do—until Collins’ breathless outburst turned to things he hadn’t seen in so long he’d forgotten what they looked like: the sheen of fresh apples at the market, flowers abloom, even the froth of waves beating a dockside.

Harry fetched a book from the bottom of his chest, as there was something hidden between its pages that might help: a pressed tulip, retaining its bright purple despite being plucked and flattened years ago.

When he placed the open book in Collins’ lap, he sobbed in astonishment, tracing a finger around the flower’s paper-thin petals.

“It’s beautiful,” he said, calming somewhat.

“You may keep them both,” Harry assured, knowing he would feel no greater joy from the tulip or book than he felt in this moment.