Frisk's face itches. They rub it, and then stare uncomprehendingly at the smear of dampness from their eyes. When did they start crying?



Toriel is silent. She should offer comfort, perhaps. But there is nothing to say.

They feel full of lead when they lie down again, higher this time, gently resting their chin upon his shoulder to peer at the locket.

They wonder who it is.

"A friend?" they whisper.