[ She fumbles with the pouch for a minute, not expecting the weight of it, but then she'll press it to her chest. Noire may not know what it contains (and she probably won't risk opening it until she's alone again, where she can trace his writing with trembling fingers and do her best not to shed tears on his memories), but she holds it gently, cherishing it. No matter what he claims, it's clearly important.
When she looks up again, the others are trickling off to compare notes, to heal the more minor injuries, and Noire breathes out unsteadily. ]
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When she looks up again, the others are trickling off to compare notes, to heal the more minor injuries, and Noire breathes out unsteadily. ]
How much time do we have left...?