Silvertip Mountain you only hear the music when your heart begins to break
billions of lighthouses stuck at the far end of the sky
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Phocion's quiet greeting sent a flutter through his heart. He pressed closer, making a soft noise almost like a whine. Good morning, he wanted to say, maybe a little teasingly. Instead he trailed his nose through the priest's fur, only glancing up when he felt his stare upon him. Perhaps he was waiting for the same thing Cortland was; perhaps they'd wait forever.
The Mayfair tried again nonetheless— but nothing would cooperate. The wrong sounds came from his mouth, and he clamped it shut. Tears instantly welled in his eyes; he closed those, too, and buried his face into Phocion. I'm not stupid, I'm not. Please don't think I'm stupid.
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