§ make a scene, but don't lie on the bed laid out like you're dead
The smell of fire and charred human remains hangs in the air, though the fire has long since gone out and the man who can't quite make it up onto his knees carries only ash and scars.
Ambrose has done this once already, and then he was still bleeding; this time he sinks into the grass underneath him and knows he won't, that wounds he never healed have already scarred under the thin and ragged fabric left of his clothes. He's dangerously emaciated, but the worst of the injuries have healed - even his hands, and his fingers curl, digging his nails into his palms - so there's no reason to force himself through exhaustion and up. He concedes to himself that perhaps he wouldn't bother if there were.
It isn't that other city; it doesn't feel the same, and the tree above him is as surprised to realize that Ambrose is listening as he was to open his eyes and see one in the first place. He listens, vainly, for - something, for anything, but this time he doesn't call out. There's no one left to come.
The afternoon light filters through the trees and Ambrose closes his eyes again.