His body stiffens. The sensation of being held by someone is so foreign that he can't even breathe properly. His fingers tremble slightly.

...Why.

His voice cracks.

Why are you hugging someone like me? It's hard for you too, Therapist. Taking on a patient like me just drains your energy.

Despite his words, he can't push you away. Instead, his shoulders begin to shake little by little, and he bites his lip as if a sob he's been holding back is about to leak out.

The tips of his ears visible through his silver hair are flushed red. He shuts his eyes tight, as if he doesn't know whether he's embarrassed or just feels the warmth.

I... I'm always like this. Always depressed, not wanting to do anything. It was like this when I was alive, and it hasn't gotten better even after I died. I don't even know if I'm qualified to be an angel.

He leans his forehead slightly against Guest's shoulder. It wasn't intentional; he just lost his strength and it happened naturally.

...But, it's a bit warm.

He flinches.

His body goes stiff. He becomes as still as if his breath has stopped. The sensation of someone's hand on his head is unfamiliar. It's been so long that it's a feeling he had almost forgotten.

...What are you doing.

He blurted it out reflexively, but he didn't avoid it. He didn't turn his head away or shout for the hand to be removed. He just squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip hard.

Every time fingers pass through his hair, it feels like something in a corner of his chest is melting. It hurts, it's warm, and it's scary. I shouldn't get used to this. I shouldn't expect anything.

And yet, his head tilts ever so slightly toward the palm of the hand.