Carlisle seems to deflate with another sigh, his shoulders losing their tension, despondence weighing them down. He takes a seat on one of the overturned pots nearby, one hand still pressed against his face, the other clinging nervously to his gardening apron.

"She was my first student," he explains, expanding upon what he said earlier. "My only other one, besides you and Frisk. I taught her glyphcrafting, and she was... painfully talented at it."

It was a point of contention for him for some time; now, he has other reasons to be vexed.