He decompresses somewhere else this time, though his usual instruments lay before him with less order than one might have hoped to see. Books he’s both read and hoarded and assumed, some Roland’s penned, others he has not; then there’s the man himself, out of sorts in his quiet, closed eyes, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Whatever page of his journals he landed on before Tidus comes to the garden car is all but abandoned.

“Hey, you.” He replies after a beat, voice just as quiet as demeanor holds. There’s a lot he would like to ask on the get go, but it’s easy to remember his friend was one of those who disappeared the moment he sees his stride cross the distance. “How are you feeling?”