“There is no feeling other than this. The destruction, the grief we all share when love starts to fade and slides inside of a deep and never-ending pocket”, Myothe said staring at the snow-spotted oak that was dying in front of him. “A pocket with no owner…”

Quiet and introspective, Tegra-Gale finally turned his head and looked into his eyes. A profound feeling of compassion filled his face and an invisible tear of this sad and imaginary material escaped and drew a line towards his white, hypothermic lips. He said nothing, his eyes said nothing, his heart was still a silent flame burning in ten thousand ways. No matter, his exterior was cold: it was iced, but opaque.

“Trying to understand this is almost taking me to a state similar to yours. Quiet at all times. I’ve never heard your voice and still, you’re the only thing I have. It mesmerizes me how you stay in silence for years, but whenever something is going to hurt me, you stand in front of it and defend the whole army in absolute silence.”