He's sure the waves must be in his head: it feels too achingly, awfully familiar to be real. The sound of a ruined beach, the sound of a river. He lets it muddle together beneath the rhythm of her voice.

The silence feels thick and almost ringing, after.

"Strange is the night where black stars rise," he echoes, because he can almost picture it. Dead stars, corpse-stars, way out past anything. It hurts to think of, but sweetly, like pressing on a loose tooth. It makes the backs of his eyes prickle red.

"Thank you," he says, genuinely, and lets his hands settle to the hot sand. He doesn't disturb it, this time. "I've got one, if you want it. Couldn't tell you what book it's from."