Silver Moraine Like a colour lost in shade

Another gentle question. Days ago Ephraim had met an adult with the same question in the manner of a bullheaded urchin, refusing to give details out of a need to keep his privacy. Now, he didn't have any answer to give. Another soft shake rolled through him and he pressed down his ears, opened his mouth and croaked a quiet and fear-limned, "lost."

It wasn't much of an answer. He was numbly parroting the adult more than anything; his mind was still racing and his thoughts were difficult to collect into anything coherent. He was tired, his body fatigued, his stress levels to the point of bursting. In that moment any sound louder than Étoille's gentle voice would surely spook him, though even if he regained his feet, without another's aid, he would just fall again. His eyes searched the brown mask on that large but benevolent face with a spark of desperation, communicating more than his words could allow at that moment.