From time to time, Layle likes to think.

He likes to think about when he'd first met Keiss, and how he'd thought he was a girl—and then he likes to think about how he was punched in the ribcage and exactly how excruciating the pain was; so intense that he now wears body armor underneath his coat all the time. He likes to think about all the time he's spent learning how to surfboard, and he likes to think about how many hobbies he's managed to pick up over the past few months.

From last time to next time, Layle likes to talk.

He likes to talk about the time he went ghost hunting and, to his (un-)pleasant surprise, found what he was looking for. He talks about the magical pond that's hidden somewhere in the depths of the Moogle Woods, and he talks about the monkeys that snatched his wallet when he went to visit the forest where he'd once chased me to. He talks about Cid—a lilty—and how he's currently working on improving his newest invention, the steam engine. He says the thing makes an awful stench, but doesn't go on for too much longer; his mind has apparently moved on to other subjects. He talks about this and that, and about how the Altifaria kingdom is surprisingly small after you've traversed all its corners and beyond.

The time after that, Layle seems in the mood to laugh.

He talks about a redheaded selkie—one with curls in her hair, and a slender body. He talks about a funny habit she seems to have; stealing, and then shoving whatever object that will fit in between her breasts. He goes on about the first time it'd happened—he sounds thunderstruck when he says that she managed to slip his whole wallet in there, and then he lets out a tiny and low chuckle while he shakes his head.

It's a long while before I see him again, but by the time I finally do, he looks sullen and hard-faced; ready to cry.

He doesn't wail or sob; he just lets it happen—the tears fall from his eyes, and he tries to breathe, but only quasi-succeeds, because each breath he takes trembles and shakes, just as his shoulders do. Every few moments, he uses his fingers to wipe away the fluid dripping from his nostrils, and every other moment, he tries to take deeper breaths than the time before. It's really not a pretty sight.

When he finally calms himself (though his breathing is still quivery), he's quiet as a mouse. He sits himself beside where I stand, and stares up at what we'd worked so hard for. He looks up at me and gives a dry laugh, eyes still a bit swollen.

It seems that all he needs to do now is breathe.

There's nothing left to think about, nothing left to talk or laugh about; nothing more to cry about, even.

I can't help but wonder if that means he'll stop visiting.

But next time, he proves me wrong as he walks in, and I hear the ruins shake—he stands next to me and stretches, and though he doesn't say anything, doesn't even have a thoughtful expression on his face, he's there, and happy as a fiddle.