It's Jake's voice he hears, faraway as a distant recollection-- one he should not, cannot know, thirty-three and surrounded by the wide sweep of Devon moorland, a vast and enveloping darkness just outside this small shelter. But the Hound is an odd comfort, now, his fur bathed in a strange golden light. His hand falls away from his mouth as the reassuring bulk of the dog settles beside him, and fragments of the scene return once more, essential set pieces to a memory playing itself out. Yujin, cradling the child, shakes his head. She doesn't resemble him, either, nor is she even Japanese: the infant's head of delicate hair is pale pink, a mess of tiny curls.

"Your mother," he answers unsteadily, "could not name you..."

His eyes drift towards Lady Baskerville. She lies in what could be a still and peaceful slumber, even as her pale body cools; notably, her hair is that very same shade of pale pink. The baby in his arms, cold, exhausted, and hungry, soon stops crying, too worn to do more but murmur small and hoarse sounds.

"Ayame gave our daughter her name." His expression softens, pain and love mingling in it. "She will name you too, little one."

"Iris," says Yujin, and the memory falls entirely away.

Yujin, empty-handed and forty-three once more, sits beside Jake on the floor of the infirmary. As he stares into the fluorescent glare of the overhead lights, his eyes brim wet with unshed tears.