It so happened, sometimes, that he paused for a moment to look in the mirror and tried to guess just what sort of man he was. There had been a time, not even so long ago, where Scotty was pretty sure he would never know. Now, he was less sure of that, even if he did have his moments where he sincerely thought he might never really get that answer.

He had done a lot, in less than a year. For that matter, within his literal lifespan, it was eight months that he had lived. And in eight months, he had gotten here. What would he be in eight years?

For now, he stood with a yellow flower tucked behind his ear, looking into the mirror. One of the pretty ones Harold had brought home, a precursor to spring. It contrasted sharply with his black hair, and cast a warmer tone to his eyes, and Scotty never even thought it might be strange for a guy to walk around with a flower resting near his temple.

He also realized, on another level, that eight months ago he never could have fathomed he would walk around like that. In his world then, there had been no such concepts. Now, he had a yellow flower in his hair and a gold band on his finger, and when he looked in the mirror, he saw a man who was content in his life and had found other things, too. Things he'd never really imagined. Things he knew once and lost young and had to find again.

Somehow, the yellow flower seemed an entirely apt representation of all of that. The uncertainty, in a way -- who knew what the year would bring? But also, the distance he had come so far. That they had come. All of it, at the moment, reflected in a mirror.

It was, after all, Scotty's first spring.