In the brief time that she's gone, Carlisle considers leaving, no matter how many amends he has to make. His fear of facing innumerable, unknown, potential sins is tremendous... but in the end, it loses to his fear of the constructs waiting on the other side of the door, leaving him still standing there by the time she returns. He's relieved that she's fully clothed, his eyes making their way to the bag in her hands.

And as she shows him the sketchbook, he feels tension lacing through him once more, gripping through his atrophied muscles, tightening around his animated bones. His eyes widen, their glow vibrant as he reaches for the book, his hands shaking.

That is him.

Further down the page, he recognizes a garden -- not his garden, but one undeniably designed after it. The rows are in the same places, and the plants -- there's glassweed on one side, coilers and fanged ivy hanging off by themselves so as not to tangle together, paw plants reaching for the sun with their curved claws. And in the center of it is another drawing of him, his eyes focused on pruning the leaves before him as he so often did when in meditation. His eyes are tired, but not devoid of life; his fingers have skin, dirt etched beneath his nails. He has a nose.

He was alive. She didn't meet him after he became a monster. But she knew about his curse -- how much more does she know? What did he tell her? How is it he was alive, but doesn't remember?

His voice is strained as he manages one word. "How?"