[Arno didn't question the glance. He had his own version of it after all, though most of what he looked at was beyond this particular place and world, where he himself had been someone else. Someone different. Here...whatever he's becoming, it feels different too.]

A lot changed at home, for me, too, very quickly. I suppose I had my constants until here, or some sort of constant anyway. And we never had to leave so far as to not lay down some roots.

[Those had helped, Arno realized now, even as he thought about the cringeworthy things he had seen grace the stage at the Cafe Theatre. It had still been HIS place, and the patrons and workers there HIS people in a sense.

The Assassins had been another of those constants for him. There had always been something to be done, or someone to practice with, or catch an off the job drink, even if you weren't close friends. Here, well, he had SHAY, obviously, weird as that situation was to him, but Arno had just come to realize how on his own he was.

The letter had emphasized that.]

Someone told me lately that all that we are, all that we have been, is within ourselves. I suppose, that we are meant to be the only constants in our own lives. Maybe that's true, but I don't much like it. I don't do well when the chance puts me alone.

Maybe that's what bothers me, the idea I can't.