The sense comes and goes, or perhaps he's simply used to the low volume of it, the constant bubble of it like a stream running slowly aground for a dry season. Sometimes the cards shuffle and split in his hands by chance, no voice in them, no wisdom to be gleaned. Sometimes the birds lift from the trees in a pattern that says stay in today. Most days, they're just birds.

Today, he has Aurora to back him up. They're in the bedroom, right at the front of the house, the window cracked for the temperate air as he works burrs and knots from her fur with his fingers, sometimes cutting clumps free with his shears.

Her ears swivel and she perks up toward the window, and it bubbles one sense up from the mud they've sunk into: not quite of someone at the window itself, but a kind of loss. A door opening in an apartment down the hall, the sound of keys settling on a ring, a voice disappearing down stairs. Exchanging a look with the young dog, he eases her off his lap, putting the shears in his pocket. "Guess it's time for a walk," he says, and she stamps her feet once before heading for the door.

When he comes out the front of the house and starts down the steps of the porch, there's a woman he hasn't yet seen standing outside Ren's house. It's worse for the wear after Casey's ransacking, but still standing as much as it can, the medusa's head still burned into the roof, only just visible from his porch. Only distinguishable because he's climbed up on his own roof to examine it, and know it's full shape.

"Are you new here," he calls, wondering why anyone else would come this far south. The only real attractions are Ren's grave and the spring.