An argumentative reply bubbles up inside him, but Michael deflates before it can turn into anything real. A sigh flows out of him like he’d been punctured by Wolfgang’s meek apology. He leans forward, resting his cheek on his knuckles. His other hand brushes the floor, index finger tracing its whorled wooden patterns. He can smell the sand Wolfgang had used. It reminds him of something, or seems like it should.
“Don’t say that, don’t say you’re sorry,” he mumbles.