He thought about it. Maybe next time. He was far too intriqued with this one notebook for now, to have his attention drawn everywhere at once by a library filled with books.

'But.'

And what could Albedo say to this? What was there to say? (And why was he saying anything? He owed this man nothing--No, he was kind to him, kind like--) There were a million answers and they all said the same thing, some in harsher ways then others; some with hope, some with despair, others laced in hate, but all shadowed by love. And that would not change. That would not go away. No matter how Albedo wished. And the ways he wished changed day to day. Was he thankful--cursed--that it wouldn't subside? He had yet to make up his mind.

Surprisingly, the prompt didn't shift his mind. The child was the calmest he had been at this Institute. He looked up at Angel, morose but resigned. "But he abandoned me."

And so much more, and so much less, but that was not something so easily said.