Symon reaches up, moving slowly so as not to startle the girl, and lightly cups her chin in his hand. His fingers are cool and clammy, but not slimy as she might have feared.
He whispers, reciting a bit of prose that Dagmar may catch some whisps of, though it is pretty quiet. His other hand brings out an autumn leaf, bagged last fall, and crumbles it... sigh, right onto the freshly swept floor.
Behold that tree, in Autumn’s dim decay,
Stripped by the frequent, chill, and eddying wind;
Where yet some yellow, lonely leaves we find
Lingering and trembling on the naked spray,
Twenty, perchance, for millions whirled away.
What is it worth that Wisdom does not scorn?
The blasts of sickness, care, and grief appall,
That laid the friends in dust, whose natal morn
Rose near their own; and solemn is the call;
Yet, like those weak deserted leaves forlorn,
Shivering they cling to life, and fear to fall...