@clockpins
It’s an old song and dance by now. He’s feeling awful, still with the shakes of the Sand Pest, and the path to the Nest is easy to follow. The warehouses are empty of people, creaking with the cold, and shouldering the door open for the one where Grief usually sat was easy enough.
There’s still a bloodied footprint on the floor from how he staggered in after his fight with Brin, and he scrubs his boot over it to smudge it into the flooring before he shoves the crates aside and pulls open Heba’s hidden doorway.
The garden whispers underneath, old forgotten twyres and flowers swaying in the draft that lets the room breathe, and he pulls the door shut behind him to be left alone until she arrived back.
Once she did, he’s not hard to find. He’s tucked in his usual corner, his cheek pressed to his arm as he rests there, like he was asleep (though his breathing isn’t deep enough to betray him as truly sleeping.)