She's tucked up under her shawl, but she manages to slip a hand out to wave to them, grinning broadly, relief and joy all mingled up in one.

He has clothes on. For some reason she didn't expect that. Then again, she's not quite sure what she had expected. Last month, he came home as if he'd just returned from the bar. She hadn't pressed.

As he gets closer, she can see the blood on his face and for a moment, she thinks he might be injured. No. His gait is easy and relaxed. Something (someone?) else's blood, then.

The sight can't wipe the smile from her face. She's seen worse.