Wheeling Gull Isle and the worms ate into his brain

He smiled at her meekly, nodding in agreement — yes, he was better, it was good, yes, — but he wanted so much more. His progress was still so slow. Sure, he could breathe better and even stand up, walk short distances, but he still felt an ache in his lower back and his voice — he didn't want to think about his voice. All of this culminated in so many he could not ask: what next? Could he stay here on the island and work away his debt to them? Did he want to? What came before all of this...?

Teamouse, she murmured, but he didn't react. Mou knew it was a name (one of many things he had been called) however, it meant nothing. There was no resonance. But it caught in his ears and made him return to the conversation rather than linger in his mind's ambiguity. Her question made his smile falter; his jaw tightened and then he was frowning slightly, his eye dimming with an obvious moodiness, but he shook his head.

At most, Mou knew he wasn't meant to be here on the island. That it wasn't really home, at least originally, but he didn't know anything else. He could've mentioned remembering a hawk, or a cliff, or the underlying feeling that there was something missing — and of course that made total sense, he was missing so many pieces of himself. Mou couldn't (and didn't want to) say anything. His attention misted over for a moment as he considered things, but in the end he merely cuddled close to his friend.