His eyes close at the tension across his hair, the tone of the voice so close, and the weight of what can not be missed in Carlisle's thoughts. The multifaceted edges of it.

"Suis-je n'ai jamais trouvé, alors," is soft, the edges of his eyes tightening. "Et vous êtes abandonnés."

He promised. He promised never again. Never.

He leans into the chair wing, but not even slightly from Carlisle's touch, when his eyes open, looking at the suit near him more than the face. How much is it admit that he's gone through all these thoughts.

"Or does nothing change, because the time outside each door never moves, and then a lifetime here still takes nothing from there."