The falconlike creature makes a little noise, like a squeak or a chirp. He'd like to nose sympathetically at the moth, if she weren't on her body at the time.

"Oh. I hope so." Everyone she's grieving is dead. Oh, they live in the Force, she knows this, but not as people she knows and can talk to, not as individual personalities and voices. One of Scout's teachers, long ago murdered, had talked about this. These hands and eyes that have been knit into a shape by the universe, will hold it for a few score years, then lose it again. That must be enough. After, one dissolves into the Force, like honey into hot tea.

She sniffs and rubs her hand under her eye. Her dæmon hops onto her shoulder, ducks under her hair, and presses his delicate furry flank to her cheek. Scout swallows and tries a smile. "It's hard, though. They matter. There's no shame in being sad."