Larksong Grotto white fog

faust glanced down at where her paws enveloped his own.
the warmth of her touch, the reverence in her voice—it stirred something buried deep in him. a ghost of another time, another life. the women of his youth had been like this—gentle in their faith, unwavering in their devotion, speaking of gods that lived in the sky, in the sun and moon, in the rivers that carved the land. he had not thought of them in years.
nostalgia clawed at his ribs, but he did not let it settle.
his gaze lifted to hers, unreadable, searching. she smiled as if she knew something he did not, as if she felt something he had long since lost.
i don't, he said finally, voice quiet, shaking his head. he pulled his paw back, slow but firm, the touch severed. whatever he once believed had turned to dust long ago.