[But why. That is the one question his mind continues to hinge on. Why. Why would he give those, why would he bury himself in sentiment- he remembers blood and desperation, remembers pale eyes and red hair and dying. Remembers burying himself in this man and next to this man and someone so warm and sweet the thought of it has his free hand trembling.]
...Amora? [A beat.] Moca. Nodo. This is. This is my home?
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...Amora? [A beat.] Moca. Nodo. This is. This is my home?