[ ...?

He can only blink, eyes closing instinctively but glancing at him with one eye open when it just turns out to be another hair ruffle. It does bring him comfort, however small, however he may not understand.

An unkind hand has never been raised to him. It's always been his gloved hand, patting him on the shoulder or back, maybe the head, encouraging words and golden smile. It was never unkindness -- it was failure. His own hand reaching out, always failing to save those he loved, always failing to reach out before it was too late.

If you could forget sadness — would you? Or would you remember? ]

The people we meet, and the memories you make with them, make up who you are. It's hard to let that go... it's like losing yourself on the way.

[ He says, perhaps a bit hypocritically when his own memory has holes and skips -- but this, he believes. ]