He ponders it for a few moments before he stiffly lies down on the grass next to me. He's on his back, his hands glued to his sides as he stares up at the sky.

I glance at him, noticing he doesn't move a muscle as he lies there as if he were made of stone.

"How do you feel?" I ask as I turn onto my side, propping my head on my arm to look at him.

"It is wet," he replies drily. "And cold."

I roll my eyes.

"I didn't ask how the ground feels. I am very much aware that it's not comfortable. But how do you feel?" I inquire anxiously, hoping to spark at least some joy in his barren heart. The more I learn about him and his life, the more I feel sorry for him and the prison he's locked himself in—all in order to excel at his job. I admire him for wanting to do his duty and protect people from demons, but that doesn't mean he cannot take time to himself, relax, and simply enjoy life.

He's over seven thousand years old, for God's sake, and he's never read a book for enjoyment.

If that's not a crime, then I don't know what is.

He seems confused by my question.

"I... I do not know," he blinks.

"What do you mean you don't know?"

He's silent for what seems like forever, his body tensing until the high definition of his muscles becomes visible through his loose clothing. Still gazing at the sky, he swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he releases a deep, agonizing breath.

A sliver of anxiety courses through me as I shuffle closer to him, my hand midair as I reach for him. But just before I can touch him, he speaks.

"I do not have a frame of reference for feelings. I may rationally understand them, but I do not know what feelings feel like."

My lids flutter rapidly.

"Are you serious? You're joking, right?" My voice ebbs as uncertainty grips me. It seems like a joke, but his countenance indicates it's not one.

He turns his head toward me, the purple of his eyes intensifying.

"Why would I joke?" he asks with a straight face.

"But... I don't understand. How can you not know what feelings feel like? You just have to feel..." Maybe he has a hard time putting his emotions into words. We've already established he's not the greatest communicator.

"I cannot. Or at least..." he trails off, his lips flattening as a scowl mars his features. "I thought I could not. I am not sure." He blinks, emotions warring on his face. They're out there in the open, fighting for supremacy despite his proclamation that he cannot feel.

"Can you explain what you mean?" I ask softly. I can see he's struggling with this, and I hate the uncertainty mirrored in his expression.