A warm, calloused hand on his shoulder. A curious gleam in the child’s eyes. The pinprick glow of blue reflected back at him; frayed rope, and in turn, hope. Not naive hope, but persistent hope.

“Why’d you become a hero?”

Golden hair in the wind. Lost power in flimsy arms. “To face my fear.”

“Of being seen?”

“No.” A soft sigh, a rough voice. “Of dying alone.”

And they leap into debris, together.