[Mikleo frets for a moment or two when Sorey shifts their hands, thinking he might be withdrawing, but once he recognizes what's actually happening he relaxes again, feeling foolish. Of course he wouldn't let go- not now. Not with them still sorting each other out. He leans in as Sorey gently pampers his fingers one by one, not objecting for once, just accepting the kindness for what it is. He listens, his lips curving into a tentative little half-smile, and slowly nods his head.]

I remember. I remember all of that.

[It's easier to think of it now, with Sorey here and audible enough to be the same reassuring presence he's always been once again. It's easy to let the memories override his fear and help him forget the feel of malevolence. He thinks it might be safe to open his eyes again, but... still, he hesitates. He doesn't want to break the safety of what they have right now.]

That was the time we spent days on the same version of the story, piecing it together like some elaborate play we were writing. Melody didn't mind the story, so she tried to teach you how to sing, but you had trouble hitting the right notes... she said you were better with your hands, anyway. That was when she found that old poetry book for you, wasn't it? Your first one.