"It's stupid," Anvar says, breaking the silence. Inric looks sideways at him, but he is staring down, brow furrowed. "I've known he was dead for seventeen years. He's still dead. I couldn't even do anything about..." he trails off, scowling, then continues. "He's not even here, most of him. Just his bones, and something he wore." He raises his head and looks at Inric, nearly weeping. "Why does this make me feel better?" Inric has no words to offer, but Anvar doesn't seem to need them. He sniffs, smiles awkwardly, and rubs his eyes in a curiously childlike fashion. For some reason, Inric also feels better.