"You're right," Jude answers flatly, looking out at the commune spread out before them. Children, elders, the sound of laughter and excitement. Someone singing to a baby. Patiently teaching stitches.

"None of this is real. Everything you see is from my memories. From how I think they would react."

Every single face, every wrinkle, every hair. Every scrap of scent. Every bit of love.

When Jude turns back, there's no trace of tears, no anger. But he does look softer, more tired, more vulnerable.

"Everything but me."