[Half a year ago, Paul would have dismissed that warning. It would have rolled off of him like water from the sleek hide of a seal, or struck him as a well-intentioned but misguided appeal to fundamental human weakness.

But he's learned things about loss since then. He looks at the fern, its soft, curling fronds, and the black eyes he thinks of are only nearly black, lapped at the edges with residual grief. He thinks of ash grey, of heart red. He thinks of blue, shadeless and bright, reflected back at him, the empty color of a world without.]

I know.

[He readjusts the fern like a little animal, as if its roots can sense his cradling, and gives Oscar a wan, careworn smile.]

So the trick is not getting myself hurt, isn't it? [The smile drops, seriousness filling the space it leaves.] Maybe I should start with not picking fights with mysterious strangers. Even ones who turn out to be excellent gardeners.

[He knows, now, what it is to lose. It's a hard-earned lesson, and one he won't forget any time soon. So what that leaves him as a choice is simple: whatever he does, he needs to make sure he can't fail at doing, whatever it takes.]