[Her eyes widen slightly at the realization of what sorts of memories follow her call this time. In a way, it's less offensive an idea, but in another way, it's almost more so. Funny, how uncomfortable it makes her to lay a finger on the happiness of others.]
[But oh, how these memories intertwine with her own. For her, too, those were happier days, at least more so than the ones before them. Twilight Town came closer to being a home for her, too, than the true world of her origin. A surge of homesickness of all things, irrational and almost entirely driven by how terrible this problem is for her, how much it makes her wish for a time when she didn't have such a problem - only back then, she had plenty of other problems.]
[Suddenly, to her horror, she finds that those memories called forth by his have been forced toward his heart, and surely if he does not fight it he will see them; memories of the scrape of crayons on paper, of colors and the drawings they made up flowing into being over a canvas of white, of time spent peering guiltily though almost pleasantly so through a window out onto the forest and the town beyond it (a shameful and dangerous indulgence of a girl yearning for life, for a real life and a real chance to go out and see that horizon and the things beyond it with her own two eyes, not as a memory and not from behind glass), and of time spent hard at work in the basement of the mansion on a project that might well break her heart if she had one--]
[She tries so hard to fight it, to keep him from seeing, but to no avail, and before she knows it, her small hand is clutching the back of his almost desperately - not painfully, but it is a clear sign of her distress. (And she is ashamed, almost--)]
[She might yet think his faith misplaced, regardless. ... But it would mean a lot to her.]
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[But oh, how these memories intertwine with her own. For her, too, those were happier days, at least more so than the ones before them. Twilight Town came closer to being a home for her, too, than the true world of her origin. A surge of homesickness of all things, irrational and almost entirely driven by how terrible this problem is for her, how much it makes her wish for a time when she didn't have such a problem - only back then, she had plenty of other problems.]
[Suddenly, to her horror, she finds that those memories called forth by his have been forced toward his heart, and surely if he does not fight it he will see them; memories of the scrape of crayons on paper, of colors and the drawings they made up flowing into being over a canvas of white, of time spent peering guiltily though almost pleasantly so through a window out onto the forest and the town beyond it (a shameful and dangerous indulgence of a girl yearning for life, for a real life and a real chance to go out and see that horizon and the things beyond it with her own two eyes, not as a memory and not from behind glass), and of time spent hard at work in the basement of the mansion on a project that might well break her heart if she had one--]
[She tries so hard to fight it, to keep him from seeing, but to no avail, and before she knows it, her small hand is clutching the back of his almost desperately - not painfully, but it is a clear sign of her distress. (And she is ashamed, almost--)]
[
She might yet think his faith misplaced, regardless. ... But it would mean a lot to her.]