That brief glimpse into his loss is difficult to witness. It's relatable and foreign to her all at once, and she hates to see her friend suffer. As much as he bolstered her mood, she wishes she could return the favor and replace his forced laugh with a genuine one. "You'd be better at playing at Father Christmas," she jokes, recalling one of their earlier conversations. "Or Dionysius."

She takes a sip of coffee, trying to think of something else light-hearted to say, but her curiosity over his renewed youth won't leave her mind. "Is that how it works?" she finally asks. "You're taken back to peak condition every winter? Or is it more gradual?"