He thinks, maybe, that he's dreaming when he sees Newt. That's his first thought. That's his initial gut reaction as he heads away from Mr. Graves' house to go on a morning walk.

The weather is brisk, but it doesn't bother him: walks are calming. With walks, it doesn't matter where he goes so long as it's not close to the village outskirts. He can do nothing but think, and oftentimes, that's all Credence needs. He walks, and he thinks of questions to ask Graves about the magical community, and maybe if he's feeling adventurous, he stops by the inn to say hello and have a snack if there's anything available. It's a strange routine, but one Credence takes comfort in. Routines, like walks, make him feel better. They make him feel like things are going to be alright.

He's not wearing his scrubs - he's got overalls and a black knit sweater courtesy of Christmas day, where he'd actually gotten presents for the first time in his life and cried. He's mulling that over, wondering when the next time the Observers will be kind to them for once, when he sees it. Rather, he sees him.

Surely, that mop of shaggy red hair and that strange, opposite of pigeon-toed walk can't be him? Credence squints.

No. No, surely, he's just imagining it. Making things up. It can't be the man from the subway, the one with the kind voice and the pale eyes.

Could it...?

Credence clears his throat, and keeps his voice soft and cautious.

"Sir?"