[ He can practically feel the way his admission settles, a quilt of quiet that blankets the room. It does not feel bad – merely different, lighter, like he’d thought. Strange that he’d never say anything like this to the people here from his own world, the ones who’d fought so fiercely by the hero’s side and ushered in his demise. That feels too vulnerable.

Sunday is all but a perfect stranger, and yet there is something here, a thread that while thin and new, seems perfectly capable of bearing that weight. ]

Twelve thousand and counting. If I had to guess, I would say most here can boast only a fraction of that.

[ There are things in this universe far older and stranger than himself, but he doubts there will be anyone like that among the other fluxdrifts. He is ancient. He should be at rest, and instead, he is here. ]

Ah, and that is where we differ. [ Sunday lost everything, but for Emet-Selch himself, everything was already lost. He toiled and tried and did everything he could to bring it back. No matter how desperately he clung to the past, that desperation could not hope to stand against the hope of the future.

Hope. He’s almost forgotten what that feels like.

He heaves a sigh, a quiet huff blown out through his nose, and leans one shoulder against the nearest wall, one eyebrow arching. The look on his face tips toward amused, if only barely so. ]

Still, I cannot imagine this is quite what you had in mind for your second chance.