It was a place Julian did not know about.

By the time we crossed the Maine border, the sun was beginning to rise.

A pale pink light touched the snow on the pine trees along the highway.

Alexander had fallen asleep beside me, his head resting against the glass.

I watched the rise and fall of his chest.

The dark circles under his eyes showed the toll the last two years had taken on him.

He had survived a kidnapping, isolation, and the complete erasure of his existence.

But he was here.

The SUV turned off the main road onto a narrow gravel path.

The tires crunched against the fresh snow and gravel.

Through the trees, the grey waters of the Atlantic Ocean appeared, rough and white-capped under the morning sky.

The house was a modest, two-story structure built of dark wood and stone, sitting on a rocky cliff overlooking the water.

The driver stopped the vehicle in the driveway.

“We are here, sir,” the driver said.

Alexander woke up, his eyes blinking against the morning light.