[ claude's voice seems to spur him, or provoke him. thoughtlessly, he plucks an egg out from amongst the others. ] It still feels like spring, [ he murmurs, speaking of the last season he remembers being within before arriving here. even with all the artificial chill and rain and snow that's happened here and there. if it's thanksgiving, he's already fourteen. but, if they were home, he would be turning fourteen in two more seasons, in a handful of months. then, is he thirteen or fourteen? maybe time has stopped altogether.
he hasn't taken a bite of the egg. he's picking pieces of peppered white off it, and staring at the tabletop. ]