Mihai is not at all surprised to find himself face to face with her. He hardly knows how to feel about any of the revelations of the last days, only that there always seems to be more at work in the world than any one man understands. There are so many red strings tying the fates of hundreds together, binding them in silence and shadows. So rarely does anyone actually find where their strings knot with others; they give only a curious pause when they feel that faint phantom tug, and the uncertainty of their existence becomes a louder question in their mind for a moment.
Mihai has spent his life connecting the dots, tracing the knots, for other people. He's untangled their webs, freed them of their prisons of fate, helped those caught in the webs of death pass from the world to whatever exists beyond it. So many voices always calling for him to pay attention, begging him to pass their messages, pleading for him to give them one more chance at living. How was he supposed to pick her small voice out as anything but another hapless spirit aching for human contact?
She says his name, the gleam of light reflecting off her tears hurts his eyes. His name on her lips is like one of his many knives, so gently pressing but sharp enough to cut.
He reaches out not for the drawing she offers, but rather to press his bared hand to her face. His touch is cool like that of someone who's been in the winter air. The pad of his thumb sweeps carefully across the soft underpart of her eye to wipe away the tears that cling to her skin.
"No," he says quietly. "I did not save you. You saved yourself." Mihai leans in slightly, his dark brow drawn tight. He seeks to hold steadily on her own gaze. "You saved yourself, Mayita."
He draws back, casting a glance down the hall before he retreats into his suite and beckons her to enter. "Come. We have much to talk of."
Beyond him the suite is open and brightly colored. White carpets, white furniture, white walls, large windows. The table in the main room is grandy and sprawling, adorned with the same fancy decor that litters the space. The only evidence that anyone's been sitting at it is at one end where his laptop and a pile of files rest. The rest of the immediately visible rooms -- the kitchenette, the tv room -- are without any of his own personality. This isn't 'home'. It's just a place where he's staying.