Phoenix Maplewood that the vicious cycle was over

another no.

while not surprising, each time he is met with the same answer a little piece of his hope suffocates in his chest. his shoulders sag a bit as the atlas-esque weight grows a little bit heavier.

a sigh pushes itself past ezra's lips, drawing another wincing grimace as it the wounds throb, knowing that despite each no he's came across he will keep looking. refusing to stop until he finds them; believing that with them is where he and his mother belonged.

a vhile ago, ezra admits, ears slicking back to rest at half mast atop his skull. his disappointment sours into anger. at himself, at amadeo, at druid, at his wounds, at that stupid wolverine. my mother and i have been searching for them for some time.

my father vas injured. may still be healing. i ... don't know about my brother. he may not even be vith him. at this point, ezra was going off of little more than sheer hope and a prayer.