[ Midnight listens carefully to both the explanation and the door. The explanation is lucid, well-reasoned, sober, unwavering. The lock on the door does not move.

Language shifts when it's necessary, as far as Midnight knows. He may not be a linguist, but a consummate host must understand words better than most. (And for decades, he was the best.) Perhaps isolas shifted with the times. Perhaps they're still isolated, but in a different sense. ]

It's difficult to leave one's heritage behind. Were that it was as easy as throwing away a toy.

[ Midnight says this quietly, still looking at the little plane. He's thinking through a few threads, picking out words and leaving others on the cutting room floor. Finally, he breaks focus and looks at Mr. Kitsuragi, solemn. ]

Did it work? Were you loved for the Revacholiere you are?

[ If Midnight understands how harsh this question is, how personal it is, how pointed it might sound, he's doing very well at taking that energy and smoothing it down. He's curious. He's asking. He's hoping that it did work, and that the solution for Mr. Kitsuragi was always that easy. He simply doesn't know if that's possible. ]