In another room, on another floor, Phoenix curled up in the corner with a blanket, a pillow, his mp3 player, and some beer. It was getting late, but he had quicker access to music and alcohol than he did to sleep, so he was attempting to enjoy both while not dwelling on how very quiet the room was in between songs. (It would have been nice to still have those toddlers about that had been there to liven things up last month.)

After a while, the track shifted to a song he could remember hearing on the radio in his childhood. He hadn't paid much attention to the music his parents liked, back then, but hearing it again has made him nostalgic, and called to mind all sorts of past-life phantoms. There was his father, distant but not unkind; his mother, always so willing to let him help her in the kitchen or with painting signs for her various protest projects; faceless children whose identities were long since lost to age or tampering from the castle itself; and then, of course, that quiet, serious little boy he'd latched onto immediately all those years ago.

Even back then, his friend's behavior confused him. He could never understand, for example, why Miles seemed to so enjoy just being alone, silently up in a tree as Phoenix so often used to find him. He recalled standing under those trees on many occasions, shielding his eyes from the sunlight as he gazed up into the leaves and called for his friend.

"Miles? What are you laying around up there for?"