FINN
Finn is driftwood. He is sliding off the face of Caido; he is the precipice of a waterfall before the drop. His imagined conversation with Amalia has ended with a tour of his home, the pathways and walls spooling out like an unravelling thread. Some of the pathways have teeth, though, and they cannot be walked, for that way lies—
Hands. They catch his shoulders, warm, secure. Finn rouses, barely, humming some noise of agreement in response to a question he hasn’t really heard. But her coaxing is enough, and he slides forward, his feet churning up the wet sand until he is seated, his back against the log. ”The doors bite,” he sighs, one final thread of his dream-dialogue with her. If she is genuine in that she is sitting beside him, it will not take much for his head to find her shoulder, an act that will embarrass and shame if it ever comes to light.
Hands. They catch his shoulders, warm, secure. Finn rouses, barely, humming some noise of agreement in response to a question he hasn’t really heard. But her coaxing is enough, and he slides forward, his feet churning up the wet sand until he is seated, his back against the log. ”The doors bite,” he sighs, one final thread of his dream-dialogue with her. If she is genuine in that she is sitting beside him, it will not take much for his head to find her shoulder, an act that will embarrass and shame if it ever comes to light.
