He starts to reach for a handkerchief to blot them away, but then considers... and leans close, whispering to the tears themselves. He touches one, and trails a streak down his own cheek as though shedding the tear itself. Using the dross as a bunk for a cantrip. It's dark dross, but he's a dark soul. Or at least, middling dim.
"Distant and dead resuscitate;
They show as the dial or move as the hands of me—I am the clock myself."
He recites a bit of Whitman to complete the bunk, trying to glance Backwards to see what may have happened here before the shooting.
