Sorrel lets it fade when she does, and doesn't grasp after the trailing edge of what might have been. No point, after all, in clinging to the impossible, or mourning before its time. As if it were that simple.

Silence settles around them like a soft, golden cloak. Dust motes idle in the slow sunlight, and Sorrel breathes through the slight, easy weight of Sina's body over his. Too slight. Too cold.

"Sina?" It's a whisper, impulsive and vulnerable. He hesitates, uncertain of why he's asking, or what he means it to come to, then forges ahead, "Have you ever... I mean, you said me too. Did you ever... with anyone else?"

It hadn't been a question worth asking, when he'd assumed a different reality. Now, though, Sorrel finds himself reevaluating so many things, thinking back and wondering, where the truth is, in memory, and where he'd been blind.