Tomb nun clicks something in his head. John's not sure what, exactly, or why his heart says Annabel like a reflex. There's the poem— but she can't be genuinely dead, not after the beach— unless it was only him keeping her alive, that whole time. Maybe he stopped.

Maybe that's why he feels the way he does, when he thinks her name.

"Do I look like a tomb nun?" It comes a little delayed, his smile a less less convincing, but still he leaves his palms open like he's presenting himself for assessment. There's a more pressing itch of interest in his head, a feeling like there's something here, and maybe it's not just the eyes. "Help me out here. I'm lacking context."