The more he talks about it, the more he feels like he shouldn't, and Arthur is scratching at the door that he doesn't like to open. When he'd seen that kitchen door in the Otherworld, he had avoided it at all costs, but of course, on that last day it had stayed wide open.

He pulls his legs up, shifting uncomfortably. This is where the 'what the fuck is wrong with Hanna game' is no longer fun. "I don't have healing magic. I couldn't save myself, I preserved what was left, the memory of a functioning body." He doesn't want to touch the other shit Arthur has said, starting to pull at a loose thread on one of his socks, and yet?

Every so softly, "My hands did it, so I did it to myself, Arthur."