eternally

          …And the strange girl just keeps growing all the more strange. Satake glanced from apple in hand to her face, then back again. There sure seemed to be some sort of… disconnect, in her knowledge of average protocol. Or maybe there was something of a language barrier? Cultural barrier? His English was sharp but not perfect, and… well, perchance she just thought him hungry.

          Regardless, accepting food from strangers (especially those of the strangest sort) was among the biggest no-no’s taught to everyone from childhood. Obviously, this was Satake’s first reaction, to eye the girl in suspicion, only exacerbated by the sleep-deprived headache. But– well. Above all that was that impulsive, defiant nature, daring him to take it anyway.

          And so Satake reached for the fruit as offered, nodding his gratitude.

           “Ah… thanks.” And there he goes, crunching into a stranger’s apple, still seated on the grass in the middle of the park. Well– maybe he’s almost just as strange!

          “–You come around here often?”

   As he munches, she seems...perhaps pleased is too strong a word, not even a hint of a smile touching her face, but something about her air seems content, and after a beat she gracefully lowers herself to sit in the grass as well, legs tucked neatly beneath her dress. Another apple is produced from her pocket (How many does she have? Is this a picnic?), though she doesn’t yet bite into it, considering his question.

          Does he feel dead to himself? Given the sleep deprivation, oh yeah. Burning, dry eyes and a looming headache… but at least Satake was still functional, sure. A quick glance around at the surrounding park, recollecting his familiarity, would then confirm concisely that no– thankfully, he wasn’t dead. Not today!

          Still, the question remained as to… this girl’s whole appearance. Sometimes street fashion was a little out there, but her garb didn’t much seem like street fashion, nor was this any actual street. Blinking blearily up at the girl Satake squinted, attempts to ascertain her origins and intents.

          “… Huh. Well I mean, usually– if someone’s dead? They don’t talk right back to you. So that’s the first hint there.” A laugh, assuring her it was just a harmless jest. “Though collapsing in the middle of the park like that… yeah, probably gives reason to be wary otherwise, mhm.”

   ...Don’t they? (Both the tease and humor fly right over her head.) She’s not sure how many dead things he’s met, but maybe not that many. Though, Raphael had told her that things were different out there. Here. And it’s certainly true; it’s been a while since she found her father’s friend and subsequently been introduced to live with the woman’s quiet daughter, and still she doesn’t often go out alone like this. It’s all a bit...much. But the park is nice.

   At any rate, despite the stranger being not dead, he doesn’t look particularly...alive, either. Dying, maybe? His hair is white, but he doesn’t act very old. And her host’s sister has white hair as well, so maybe that’s a common trait. Another few ponderous moments pass before she slips her hand into a pocket of her dress.

          Exhausted to the point of collapse be he may (may he be?), Satake was still a light sleeper in all times. The pokes of the stick gave nudge to his collapsed form, prodding him from that blessed sleep. Go away. Go away!!

          “STOPPPPP.” Wailing of the damned, and he springs upward to face the violent offender. But before any further retort could escape him, Satake was made to blink, register the girl before him, and question his sanity. Huh, maybe he had gone without sleep for a bit too long this time.

          “…Am I dead?”

   At the sudden outburst and up-burst, the girl drops the twig and flinches away, eyes going impossibly wider though she doesn’t make a sound. (Did, perhaps, her shadow flare? Surely a trick of the light or a minor hallucination, if indeed he even noticed.) There follows a terribly long pause during which she continues to simply stare at him.

   “...I don’t know.” When she finally speaks her voice is wispy, faintly dusty, like old tissue paper, words as slow and deliberate as her movements. A few beats pass before she peers at him a little closer, though not too close. “...I...don’t think so.”