[The squeeze is appreciated, more than she knows. But he pulls away stiffly.]

Be careful. You'll hurt yourself if you grab the wrong spot.

[He takes her past the next cavern opening. There's a stench from that room, the smell of death decaying. She already knows what's there; he doesn't feel obligated to show it off.

Instead, he brings her to a more private space. The walls are lined with chalky notes. Articles from news publications over the past year are taped in some sequence, from "mysterious new arrivals awash near Vandare river" through "a new monster menace" and beyond.

There's a poster on the opposite end of the room, advertising "The Flying Graysons". It was a gift, wished into existence by a friend who never seemed to stick around long enough to realize how important he actually was.

Beneath the poster, a tally:
| - refused sacrifice. set on fire
|| - crowd control went badly. trampled?? maybe something else.
||| - vampire + wood]

I've been keeping a journal since we got here. It's useful when I think something's happened that's hitting our heads badly. I like to think it keeps me sharper than I'd be if there wasn't documentation.

[Without commenting on the decor, he pulls a small book from a place on a handmade shelf. It's a leatherbound journal, singed at the bottom with some old burn marks.]

Some of it's pretty personal, but. I was thinking that maybe I could jog your memory if you had a way to think back on what it was like when we first got here. We ended up stuck in some mines together. Came out to each other by accident.