Hushed Willows as spring opens (touching, skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose

Her comment on Nine had his heart dropping, of course, but he let out a soft huff of laughter, anyway, as the idea of Nine being anything like him was too ridiculous not to laugh at. He imagined that, if Nine had been even a little more like him, they could've gone on as they had indefinitely. Or perhaps that was unfair. Perhaps it had been Kincaid all along.

It had been Kincaid to up and leave him, after all.

"Actually, he's a lot more like you," he admitted, sounding not pleased so much as entertained by the idea. "But there's no one like him, really. Probably a good thing." He did think Eleuthera would have liked him, had they gotten to meet, but he could only thank whatever twist of fate had brought her to him now that it was quite impossible. Or improbable, at the very least.

Eleuthera had more memories to entertain him with; Kincaid did his best to wrap his head around her having two mothers, and decided that her father must've been either a scoundrel or a clergyman. Perhaps both. It didn't bear asking about, however, and they arrived the rose garden just in time for Eleuthera's last words to send him reeling back as if the information had scalded him.

But as this was their destination, he put his paw tentatively back on the rich soil, and looked back at Eleuthera to test her mood. She'd said that this was her favorite place, so he endeavored not to let the information cloud his perception of the area. Not negatively, at least.

"All of them?" he asked her, his voice soft.

He was struck, suddenly, by the idea that he would not know where Nine Lives was buried. Oh, he believed with all his heart that he was still alive, still with Mollie, perhaps with a couple of kids on her, now. But one day he would die, and Kin would live on because they would both still be young.

Would he know? Would he sense it? Did it matter, if they were living apart?