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[Sören]

Sören was vaguely surprised when the drink was accepted. His life tread such narrow lines sometimes that he forgot the simple pleasure of camaraderie absent of ulterior motive. Memories of Declan buried deep, and for a moment he regretted the drunken sway of his thoughts to things best left untouched. Better to learn the lesson and find such connections in a stranger; to swap tales and no names, each returning to his own life after. He did not care for this man’s woes any more than he suspected the same was true.

The idea of godliness plucked a grim smile, but its shadow slipped quickly away. His mind reared sluggishly to reflect upon the mercurial nature of his own existence in kind, but it was too terrible to grasp. Sometimes he still heard the clack of those bones. With a short swallow to rid the taint, he instead considered the manner of his own upbringing, which provoked considerably less feeling. Lacking the usual pillars of either parent, Sören had been raised by money.

“Who indeed,” he agreed. Fate’s forked tongue was cruel. It did not really answer the question he had been asking, which was perhaps too slippery a thing anyway -- and far more existential than he was willing to delve into even with the whiskey. Else maybe it really was as simple as do or die. Another drain. “A child should have a childhood.” A resolution that somehow pleased him, the first such instance of satisfaction he found in the conversation, and strangely of peace. One couldn't control the building blocks of their own life. Absence was its own vindication. He didn’t think about it.