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_{[ ...there is, louder, now shed of his curse, the piece of him that always wonders why. the piece of him that would rush to rebuff a reached-out hand, when offered.

it is a piece he would usually mollify with cynicism: imperious assurance that he understood the base motives that would drive someone to an appearance of 'kindness,' or 'care;' whispers that since he knew the real reason, he could tolerate it, and be all the more in control of its course.

there are steps and steps in the sands of time behind them that put them in this moment. but even in hindsight...
the cold patterns he would normally place them as do not, in any way, match. ]}