She calls a name, and— that is one of his names, isn’t it? Ozpin. He can't recall whether that's the current one. He can't recall which life he knows her from.

"Thank you."

It comes soft and tired, but he accepts the offered arm to steady himself as they walk. She is terribly small, but this seems only right; she is young and helpful, and he is an old man.

Or— is he not? He was sure of it. He needs his cane just to get around, these days. Or— does he not? He doesn't seem to have it now. This body must be a new one; that must be why he can't remember who he's supposed to be. It all seems to run together.

He rubs at his eyes with his fingertips, breathes a sigh. When Oz opens his eyes again to look at his rescuer properly, he sees silver looking back at him, and the spark of recognition shows in his face.

"Ah." I know you, he almost says. Instead he says, "You have silver eyes."

She must be a warrior, then. A helpful rescuer indeed.