Embracing segment eight at the tea table one last time, humming the tune of the aranara's you frequently played on the vintage lyre just for the little boy.
As Zandik's soul trapped in Irminsul doomed them all, fading into ash as the burning tree, three farewells were said that day. From the pair of coworkers, and the make-believe son and mother.
"Goodbye, Feofan." "Goodbye, Zandik."
"Farewell, my dear Eight." "Bye.."
Maybe in another life.











