"It usually is me, to be fair, but — ten points for figuring it out, Tom Zane," his name rolls off his tongue like the refrain of a song.

The easy humor belies the more complicated thoughts this has all stirred up in him, ever since the strings appeared. He remembers that first morning, the curiosity of it all, the different colors separate and distinct, yet coalescing in the way they've bound him to others without his asking for it, or wanting it. Or maybe he has wanted this — that's where the trouble comes, in trying to discern and make sense of his own feelings about all of this.

In his usual way, the past few days have seen him leaning into analyzing and studying the threads themselves, trying in vain more than once to follow the white thread — essentially, doing his best to ignore the emotions that come with this, while also quite confusingly, wanting to lean into the feelings being conjured, to poke and prod and see what comes of not disregarding its importance. He will run away and he will run towards, and he will never make sense to anyone most of the time, certainly not himself.

"I won't tell you what the points add up to, that'll spoil the surprise," he teases, an easy smile on his face, happy to see him regardless of anything else. Even without the strings, he's felt the pair of them speak a language few others seem to know or understand, so his company is most welcome. "Now you're not standing out there and freezing, come inside. Unless you're trying out for the part of decorative doorway stanchion."