Warmth.
That was the first thing. Before thought, before memory, before the slow restart of a mind that had been shut down by something it couldn't process - warmth. On his forehead, on his cheeks, on the bridge of his nose and beneath his closed eyes. The specific warmth of light rather than heat, pressing against his eyelids with a bright orange-amber that filtered through the thin skin and turned the darkness behind his eyes into something that looked like the inside of a lantern.
