The Mote draws Carlisle's full attention, his apprehension giving way to awe; he grasps at his chest, fingers digging into the tattered tabard that covers him as his breath catches in his throat for a fraction of a second. "I- I have seen that somewhere," he recalls, trepidation making him shrink from it despite his curiosity. Unable to handle its brilliance, he closes his eyes, burying his face in his hands once more.

"I- it was a gift. It was a gift to me, from- from him. It was real, unlike..."

He trails off, still feeling the ground beneath him, the ash and dust clinging to his frame, poisoning in the air he breathes. The world feels so real, no matter how much he tries to tell himself it's not. He starts repeating himself, trying to refocus.

"A gift! From- I- I know his name. I know his face. I haven't- I haven't lost that. I know who he was, and how- how he felt, and we were real. I need only- I need only remember. Please don't take that from me!"