The light dies bloody and he goes inside.
He lives with the electric lights. He needs to work, and he works all night every night.
The big kitchen table they both loved: more than a hundred years old, rich with the patina of ten thousand meals, a million knife-marks, a billion human touches. It was the first piece of furniture they bought together for the house. It was hard to look at now.
Now he spreads out his maps and charts, as he does every night. He takes his notebook from his pocket, built from leather, twine, thread and paper he makes himself from old scraps and rags. His constant task. Reconstructing the exact properties of the night she disappeared through the fogou. Comparing the measurements of the day to the elements in play that night. Looking for some approaching conjunction, some combination of stars and pressure that opened the fogou that one night and never yet again.
If he can find the conditions that caused it to open and take her away, and recognize those conditions when they come close again, he has a chance to reach through it to Annwn and bring her home.
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