Duskfire Glacier jimmy, you should switch it up

faust is silent for a long time. the kind of silence that stretches, that lingers in the air like a ghost, heavy and full of meaning left unspoken. he does not look at her immediately. instead, his gaze drifts to the sky, where the first hints of twilight are beginning to creep in, chasing the golden light from the horizon.
i believed in the stars once. his voice is quieter than usual, almost contemplative. my mother made sure of that.
his mother. a priestess. a devout woman. he remembers the way she would lift her head to the heavens, whispering words of faith he never quite understood as a child. she spoke of gods with conviction, with reverence, and he—young, impressionable, naive—believed her.
until she was gone.
his jaw tightens slightly. but i learned that faith means nothing when you are left with nothing.
he does not elaborate further. does not tell her about the nights spent searching for meaning in the constellations, only to find emptiness staring back at him. does not tell her how, in his worst moments, he had prayed to anything that would listen.
and nothing ever answered.
so no, i don’t listen. he finally says, his voice firm but not unkind. he exhales sharply, glancing at her then, meeting those pale blue eyes that always seem to see too much. and i don’t think they ever tried.