He remembers hearing something similar, before. They're not his memories, he knows, but they're all he has. They're the only thing that makes it feel like he's been around longer than seven months, and they're the only life he has outside the Mansion.

Back then, he remembers bristling at it. It felt condescending, like Tim thought he knew what was going on in Jay's head better than he did. Like he wanted control. Like he was pretending Jay was sick just to make himself feel better.

Now, though? Outside the false memories sewn into his head?

These are the nicest words anyone has said to him in his whole life.

He's not sure how to process it.

He didn't expect to have to process it.

They're just words. They're vague enough to mean anything, really. They're platitudes. They're senseless. They're not going to keep him from being Unmade when the Queen's standing over him. They're not going to keep him from being Marked. They're not going to bring him back home. They're not going to help him in any tangible way.

The skin around his eyes is stinging. He swipes at it, and his hand comes back wet.

Meaningless.

Malfunctioning.

He grits his teeth, and (The wind is rustling through the leaves but the sound is wrong. He knows the sound is wrong. The Mansion door opens and shuts. He can hear noise from inside; someone opened a window, despite the chill. The air is sickly-sweet. There is birdsong.) breathes.

He needs a minute.