He shifts with her, as she turns his clinging into an embrace; they're both small people, rendered smaller by loss, their limbs fitting over-under and chapped hands finding folds to grip in their fists. Today they're both in red, the green of Casey's shirt stood out even in the dim light, like he was lost because he somehow didn't belong.

The card he pulled from Kira's deck, the card that echoes back and likely forward in his life, proved otherwise.

Loss, over and over. Loneliness, an ocean he existed in that sometimes tossed him onto a shore, then flooded and swept him back out again. "No," he answers quietly, the wound of it burning new tears across his eyes. "No, no, he's gone."

Releasing her, he tugs the shirt into his lap, stuffs it safe before digging out the contents of his pockets and letting them fall on the dusty floor. The deck of cards, the three of spades plain in their sprawl; the dice, the third of which bears the scar through its third side. "The cards say he's gone and the dice say he's gone and the house and I just know--"

It's probably as much as he's ever said since Ren, about the things he can do, and it can't make much sense without context. But there's only the tremor in his voice, and the casings on the bathroom sink, and the feeling that pulled him away from the party at all. "I know things, Jyn. I know when people hurt, and when they lie, and I know he isn't out there anymore."