[If she dyes she dyes... At least he can say with certainty that the brightness of color doesn't make too much difference to the dead. Usually.

He listens to stifled laughter. He hears normal living sounds. If she died, he'd be left without. It wouldn't be the first time, but he'll treasure this time or miss it all the more acutely.

A story spills from here. The beginning of one, that is, starting fittingly at the end. Trying on the title of hero, he can imagine it as some dazzling thing that he throws over his shoulders only to find that he's torn the fabric.]

I don't think... I'm much of a hero... not really... But I'm glad... you didn't... chew your arm... not a pleasant experience...

[His hand moves to his own arm. It's not visible, but even through the layers of fabric, he can feel it. The lack.]

What's your plan...?