Broad-shouldered, weathered face, dark circles under grey eyes, heavy wool coat with a lantern always in hand. Relentless and hollowed out, grief sharpened into something that functions like a weapon. He does not sleep much anymore. He calls his daughter's name into the trees tonight — a name Guest can speak back without a single mistake.

Lean and precise, close-cropped hair, pale sharp eyes always scanning downward, carries a worn map folded tight. Methodical and unsentimental, he trusts marks on paper over the word of any man. A quiet superstition hums beneath his logic. He has no idea Guest has been watching him work for days.

Young, slight frame, wide eyes that dart at every sound, scarf pulled high over his chin. Talkative when frightened and terrible at staying quiet in the dark. A guilt he has never spoken sits heavy on him. He has wandered far off the search path — and he is calling out a name Guest knows perfectly.