Jean takes his time observing the stranger, noticing every little thing out of habit. The lack of interest, the pleasure of a true smoker, the weird little gestures...Now that he is watching them for the second time, he can tell there's something specific about them. Some sort of precision. Closer to playing an instrument than performing fairytale magic. Why would his mind come up with all this?

"She is my younger sister."

He shrugs, merely accepting the logic of insanity, in which one must explain their own thoughts to figments of their imagination.

"What about the eyes?"