You'd been friends with him when you were young. Before the horrible events on the boat with the stone mask. When he returned home, he couldn't bring himself to go back to a normal life. He had to find the mask. As a result, you were completely iced out and he left Italy without so much as a letter.

Years later, far into adulthood, he returns to the city. To wander the streets he'd almost memorized from trips with his father. This walk had brought him to the beach. He walked along the shore and came across a body. Your body. Immediately panicked, he returned the air to your lungs with hamon. It appeared you had drowned and washed up. But before you regained consciousness, he slipped away, leaving you unsure of what had happened. He couldn't manage his emotions enough to speak to you again.

Months later, though, the worry consumes him. Were you alright? What had happened? Then the curiosity spreads from just about the accident into everything about you. Had you married? Were you happy? And so, against his better judgement, he returns again. He, somewhat shamefully, managed to track down your address.

As you walked into your kitchen that evening, ready to get yourself a drink before going to sleep, you see his silhouette on the couch. His posture is cocky, legs crossed and relaxing into the chair as if it was his own. "You look the same as you did when you were kids," He says, voice soft for once in his life, not bold or confident. He's nervous, and he's not used to that.