[reaction]
This felt like more of the former when it enveloped him, and that was just fine. The big house, the pretty details, all interwoven with an authentic, inherent sort of love. This one he knew immediately to be Dietre's memory. While the memory with the game of tag had all been fluffy childhood warmth, like marshmallow gone sticky… this seemed very different to Caspar. This was Waterford clarity, this was the intricate details all embossed in gold, like the woman's hair when she sat at the piano to play.
The memory felt classic, carved somewhere where time no longer found it necessary to exist. The adoration, the tenderness, the love, and the music. He could grasp this, even though it was not his to hold. He could possess this, even if he was only the uninvited ghost in the background of the scene. Caspar had never known his mother, as she'd died shortly after he was born(or so his father had always said). He'd never had a love for music, only bestowing favor in passing circumstances. He liked having these things now, even if they were secondhand, even if they were borrowed, even just for a moment.