Artifex stood in the courtyard once again. No one had seen him come; no one had seen him go. And hopefully no one would.

The snowdrop flower from yesterday was, as expected, still there. But it appeared to be drooping ever so slightly; an observation that filled Artifex with worry. He looked down at the flower much as a concerned adult may gaze upon a stranger’s injured child, with reserved sympathy but a hesitance to help. He had only water on him; but the soil was still wet, and the plant did not appear to be thirsty. He dared not use it, for fear of drowning the poor thing.

He sat himself down beside the flower, tired. He had been tired for a number of days now; the exhaustion never seemed to run dry. As to what caused the exhaustion, he had several guesses; but he was simply too tired to list them mentally, nor physically.

He breathed in the autumn air. It no longer smelled or tasted as good as it used to. Certainly, it was just as brisk, but it lacked a certain spice to it. It missed the bite, the sharpness, the witty demeanor of a giddy wind that had long followed Artifex throughout much of his years; it was unfamiliar, a mere cousin of the air to which he had become accustomed.

The snowdrop must have felt the same, because it seemed to droop even lower to the ground.

The wind rustled through his hair. Some leaves hit his fingers. He closed his eyes, feeling relaxed. His shoulders slumped; breathing steadied out. The world and its nuisances, its annoyances, dulled considerably; Artifex could have fallen asleep if he so wanted.

In his darkness, he saw the truck again; and his eyes opened, and he frowned. Even if he wanted to sleep, he knew it to be impossible.

The world remained dull for but a second, drowned out by his own thoughts; then, as a roaring and rushing river of rambunctious and rowdy students, it returned, and he was aware that he was at school, and that lunch had not ended, and that he was outside, and that he was alone, mercifully alone.

He didn't close his eyes this time, but he did lower his head, in silent contemplation, in silent condemnation.

Slowly, though, he grew aware of another presence. It felt familiar, though no other sounds besides soft footsteps could be heard. It approached, then, walked around him, and sat down. Had he had the energy, he might have said something. Perhaps he might have gotten up.

He waited; and the presence waited as well.

"You look like how I feel," the presence suddenly said. He realized it was a she; and that she was, undoubtedly, familiar.

And her words were enough to make him smile only slightly; an action that was not lost on her.

"Finally. Some progress," she said, and he could practically feel the knowing smile upon her face. "Guess the good-old-sarcasm-and-dry-wit-combo still works."

He didn't answer, and the smile began to fade.

"Suit yourself," she said. Something rustled; she had shifted slightly. "Gosh, how did you manage to sit here? The ground is much too hard."

Again, he refrained from answering. Something in his heart bubbled; something in his stomach growled.

"Did you eat yet? No, of course you didn't. You wouldn't, I'd imagine, until you had to."

In answer, and with only a hint of chagrin, Artifex grabbed his backpack, unzipped it, and retrieved a simple, blue lunchbox. He opened it, and took out a small sandwich, which he weighed in his hands, tossing it up and down. With a slight wave of his arm, he gestured—without looking—to her.

"I appreciate the offer, Artifex, but I'm not all that hungry." She yawned. "Just tired."

His head bobbed slightly, and he pulled the sandwich back. Opening the packaging, he took a bite. It was sweet to the taste, like nectar or honey.

"So what brings you to this place, Artifex?" She probably looked around, due to the pause between her statements. "I admit, it's nice-looking. In fact, in some ways it reminds me of college. A lot of students, spacious, a stupendous courtyard… Mom and Dad certainly chose a good school for you."

He nodded again.

A pair of hands ruffled his hair. They were light; so light that they might as well have been the air itself. "Aw, are you giving me the silent treatment again? You know I don't like that, Artifex."

He shook his head; an apology of sorts.

"Hey, if you don't want to talk, that's fine. Still, it'd be nice to hear your voice, Artifex. You shouldn't try to hide it."

He didn't answer.

"What's wrong, Artifex? I would have thought that you would be sitting with your friends at your table. Or at least with someone, and not out here in the cold." She brought her hand to his shoulder, and gripped it, tightly, to reassure him of her presence. "I mean, I know you aren't the most social of butterflies, but still. This isn't like you—it wasn't like you."

He made a point to look away, staring at the snowdrop flower.

She nodded, accepting his silent remark. "Alright. I understand. You want to be left alone with your thoughts—that's something you've always done, especially when things got tough. Just promise me one thing, okay?"

He nodded slowly.

"Promise me…that you'll be alright. Okay? Because I can't always be there to watch you; I won't always be there to help you. You're smart, Artifex; I know you are. So you can figure things out on your own without me."

Her grip briefly tightened. "Okay, Artifex? Promise me that, at the very least. Please?"

"..." He turned to face her, to answer, to indeed promise; but she was already gone. His mouth remained open for a moment longer, before it closed, and he looked back at the snowdrop flower beside him.

He nodded to himself, then gradually got up. Good talk. Good talk.

Adagio would have gone up to Artifex to confront him.

She would have.

She would have, knowing that he was distressed; that he needed someone to talk to.

She would have, thinking that it felt somehow right; that it felt more right than anything she had ever felt.

She would have, had he not sat down.

She would have, had she not seen him smile.

She would have, had she not seen him sitting underneath that tree, next to that snowdrop flower, having a silent conversation with something that wasn't there.