Turning to where the sound had come from, I froze.
Sam stood in the doorway.
He was wearing the same clothes from the last day I had seen him. The fabric looked worn now, hanging differently on his frame. He appeared paler, older, as if time had carved itself into him instead of passing by. And yet, despite it all, he still carried the same unmistakable aura.
The kind that filled a room without trying.
"Sam," I said softly, unsure for a brief moment if it was really him.
"It's me, Pokka."
My eyes softened at the nickname. He had given it to me when I was much younger. As I grew older, he rarely used it, but hearing it now, spoken in his voice, was enough to convince me. This was real. This was Sam.
I rushed forward and wrapped my arms around him.
He didn't hug back.
That was how I knew for certain it was him. Sam hated physical touch. Always had.
I stepped back, searching his face. "Where have you been all this time?" I asked.
