However long he's walked, there's an end to it eventually. Among the dark shapes of the town's buildings that take form from the heat haze and kicked-up dust, Cecelia's shape is unremarkable until close enough to be seen as more than a black dot. Flame-red hair flickers in the errant breeze as she scans the horizon, watching in turn for lost shapes like him. Her eyes are sharp enough to see him from some distance, and she'll strike ahead with her satchel stocked with some meager provisions to meet him, hoping but not believing that she'll see a familiar face form out of that nearing shape.