[ Another piece of the inventory, says Timm. Michel looks at him blankly for a long moment, thoughts travelling back in time, far back, when he was younger and stronger and his father was -- not. Not old enough to die, surely, but we don't get to decide these things ourselves, as it is. Strong, at least, he wasn't. Maybe it was never a characteristic of his.

In some ways, Michel is very unlike his father, for better and for worse. He purses his lips and looks to the side, away from the blue fingerprints that Timm is leaving all over the utensils and that Fabiola will curse her employer to Hell and back over, when she sees. Ah well. Some would say he's going there anyway. The Church. His son, most likely.

His father had looked so pale in his hospital bed, too. Another piece of the inventory. ]

I have a feeling things and people get lost in hospitals. [ His croissant is just sitting there in front of him, a clear sign that Michel has been lost, down some old hallways and back alleys of the mind. ] That maybe, at the door, we leave our souls behind, either to be picked up later or, if we fail to ever leave again, to be handed in at the huge lost and found department they keep in the basement of those places.

[ Blink, blink. He shakes his head, chuckling low in his throat and takes a long sip of coffee before looking back at Timm again. ]

Don't mind my nonsense. How is the porridge?