And Nye. Every moment with him felt like a dream decoded, a riddle unravelled in a foreign tongue. Whether drinking by my side at the Pig, eyeing me appraisingly across the hall at Malstrom’s, or splayed out casually in my desk chair recovering from the rigors of a dig, he was my North Star whenever the darkness of doubt threatened to envelop me. When I could not tell dreams from wakefulness, he remained my touchstone and my Truth; a glimmer in his eye and a quirk of his lips were all that it took to make me feel manifest, whole, and worthy.
