Rama frowned, his brows knitting as he stared at the cloaked figure.
The strangeness of the place, the surreal landscape, the cryptic voice. None of it surprised him anymore. He had seen enough in the last few months to burn out whatever sense of normal he once had.
So instead of panicking, he tilted his head slightly and asked, "Who are you?"
The figure didn't move. His voice, low and distant, sounded like a man's voice. But his face remained hidden deep beneath the shifting shadows of his hood.
Rama narrowed his eyes.
"Are you… Lysander?" he asked cautiously. That figure still lingered in his memory. The mural, and the vision he saw, that brief moment when the painted hero had turned to him and said he was sorry for something he didn't understand.
He didn't remember his voice exactly, but this presence felt like it could be him. But he not sure.
