Very early this morning, after a restless night, I went and sat apart from the group, watching the stars fade as I had loved to do in my little attic room back in the town. After a while, the grandmother came out of the scraggly thicket where the rest were still sleeping — and sat, not close, but a little out of arm's reach, like a stranger at an otherwise empty cafe, near enough to start a conversation, if one of us wanted to, but far enough away that it wouldn't be necessary, if neither of us did.

We faced west, watching the distant hills begin to stand out from the black sky, a few thready clouds lazing near their tops as they pinked up, as if coming back from the dead. In a moment sunlight began to melt like honey down the mountain's flank. Presently I heard what I thought was wind moving across the moor before us, but then realized she was humming, and out of the corner of my eye I perceived she was rocking, like someone mourning.

The sound and motion penetrated me, and I began to rock as well, the grief of all I've lost forever rising powerfully in me, but I forced it back down with an impatient gesture, and she instantly went silent and still.

I felt she had turned, and when I looked, I saw her regarding me, head tipped to the side, with what might have been a little smile. She nodded once, then turned her gaze back toward the brightening mountains. She rocked a few more times, then looked down and spoke gently.

Of course I did not comprehend all she said, but I recognized the word I think means "outlander" — what they call me — though she seemed to be applying it to herself, or using it in a way that didn't involve me. Perhaps she too had been a foreigner among these people at one time — but then sooner or later all of us find ourselves a stranger among strangers, do we not?

Whatever she was saying, it was a story, as I recognized, and I nodded or murmured when the music of her telling invited me to do so, and when the tale was over, and she looked up to see if I understood, I smiled, because I *did* understand, if not her text, then the feeling she imparted in conveying it to me — the weight of its meaning, if not the meaning itself, and she saw she had reached me, and smiled in return.

The others were stirring; she rose and looked towards them, then put a hand on my arm as she passed — I couldn't tell whether she wanted me to stay behind because she did not want us seen together, or was only telling me I could keep my watch a little longer if I wished, so I remained in place, returning my gaze to the now brilliant landscape, suddenly at peace in the world again.