The cold is giving way to his lips, at this temperature he has less and less probabilities on his hand. And even in this unforgiving season, he could afford to reconsider his steps. On the deathbed wasn't where he rests, not yet at least. But what kind of man would come of Fiddleford if he stepped back from this porch? The property of Stanford Pines. Certainly not a honest one, that's for sure. After his falling out with the scientist, everything else came crumbling down soon after. Like dominoes, pushing each other to the last. Emma-May stepped down from their marriage, acquired after the house and the child along with everything else they had built over the years. Literally pulled the rug from beneath Fiddleford, leaving him scrambling for stability and inevitably back at Stanford's mercy. He's willing to be gullible enough to believe Ford's humane—let him stay for a night.

The door creaks open, a small gap through which heat escapes. And on the other side stands a familiar face. —Stanford?— Fiddleford asks for the obvious. Of course, it's him he's been working with all these months. But... then again, he has changed, a lot more than the regular person should in a short span of time they'd been apart. —No, you're... not.—

—Do I look like your boyfriend?— The stranger answers defensively. It can be seen that both are mirror images of each other. Both are paranoid galore, and more or less surprised by this visit.

—No, my ex-partner.— Fiddleford pressing his cold-torn lips into a tight smile, there's some relief in the resemblance so close to a comforting presence, even if it's faux. —I can't believe it! You could be his twin... Your face, your voice, just your hair and clothes are different.—