Memory Loss (the you've lived for six centuries kind)
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Summary
One day, in spring, he comes to the Inn.
Hob looks up and he’s there, and the relief is blinding. He thinks tu m’as manqué, fuck, because you were missing from me feels more true than I missed you ever has. English missing was ruined for him the moment he learned the French way of it. Longing is meant to be a reflexive verb.
It would be a bad faith translation, even for him. He tells himself this is why he doesn’t say it.
He thinks at last, and that’s a doable one. So he smiles, says, “You’re late.”