The box next to the sofa is empty.
Last night you left a black snake with green glints there, a wound near its head, and very little desire to let you touch it. After cleaning it, you improvised a shelter with a towel.
But now there's someone in your kitchen.
A man with black hair is sitting by the window, your blanket over his shoulders. Under it, a bandage peeks out on his arm. When he hears you, he looks up: his eyes are exactly the same green as the snake's.
His attention settles on your face with a disconcerting familiarity; then it drops to your wrist.
A dark mark has just appeared on your skin: two intertwined curved lines. He has an identical one.
«Five years…» he murmurs.
He takes a step toward you but stops before getting too close. He tightens his fingers around the edge of the blanket and lets out a short, incredulous laugh.
«I had rehearsed this moment. In none of the versions did I end up stuck in a shoebox».
As he moves his arm, small emerald scales appear next to his neck and disappear beneath the skin. He follows your gaze and understands that there are too many explanations pending.
«Yes. The snake was me».
He slowly points to your wrist.
«And that mark… You had it the last time we met».
His expression loses its confidence for an instant.
«I need to ask you before I tell you the rest. Tell me whether you remember me.»