I had hoped that there once was someone, perhaps before you were turned. It would be very sad, I think, if you have never cared for another.

[ She says it earnestly with a slight furrow to her brow. Nothing like pity, she would never bother with that, but perhaps a melancholy curiosity. ]

In such a case then, this may be easier to imagine. Picture a boy, barely on the cusp of becoming a man. Quiet and tense. On his lonesome, in the dark, he must be one of the unloved.

Would anyone even miss such a tragedy?