I rushed to your picture frame first, but it yielded nothing. No, not nothing. A certain distaste, that felt like tar in my mouth, heavy, unrelenting, dark, putrid, unpleasant.

She always finds his voice like warm water. Never boiling, no. It has a nice warmth to it without ever being tepid. She closes her eyes and breathes in his voice even though it mostly sounds like distant babble to her right now. It smells like sunshine on the grass.