"I would like that," she admitted. The solitude she could bear, as she had for many years already. But the separation from Seymour was difficult for her, though she would not care to admit it. It would trouble him, or at least she hoped he cared enough for it to bother him. Lately, she was not sure.

Her head lowered, to hide the longing that was overwhelming. "Be well, my son," echoed in the air as her transparent form faded, leaving only a singing statue behind.