[There's a cat.

R had seen it from the door, and it hadn't moved as he'd approached - shuffling, awkward, and the kind of noisy that usually frightened the more skittish animals away. Beside it, he'd lowered himself to the grass and stretched out on his stomach, close enough to the flowers to see the insects moving amongst them, and the cat still hadn't fled.

If anything, it seems curious about him. He likes that. The cats in the city, when he's seen them, have been mangy, starved things always searching for their next meal. They're no good for the Dead to eat, so they get left alone.

This cat is orange, and large and fluffy, and it's pretending not to notice him. It gets close enough for him to lift a hand and reach out - his fingers close loosely on the back of its neck and stroke down the length of its body.

The purring is immediate. R smiles, and the tip of his finger gently touches to the patch of skin and short hair just above the cat's nose. He speaks.]

Boop.

[Untroubled, he ends up lying on his back with a cat curled up on his chest, the very model of 'can't move, there's a cat asleep on me'. With one hand behind his head and the slightly greyish pallor of his skin, you might be forgiven for mistaking him for really dead.

But then he blinks.]

[All in all, it's much nicer here than it was in the airport, or in the decaying remains of the city. The ache from his abandonment by Julie is still there, though not as fierce as it was, and he has settled into the idea that maybe what had happened had been for the best. After all, what could he offer to someone as bright and vibrant as Julie?

He'd found the library almost by accident, in mindless wandering that had led him down increasingly unfamiliar corridors all looking the same as the last. At the door, he stands in slack-jawed amazement.

Books are something out of reach for him. Words shift and letters morph into other ones and he can't remember the last time he was able to read anything. It's just another level of detachment, making the Dead's separation from the Living all that more complete. He feels like he used to read a lot, but he doesn't remember enjoying it. The recollection of paper shifting under his fingers flashes in and out in faded greyscale.

He moves through the shelves, occasionally trailing his fingers along the spines of books and enjoying the sensation of it. Occasionally, he pulls one out, but doesn't give it much attention before carefully putting it back.

R would like to remember how to read, but much like his ability to pronounce more than four syllables at a time, it's long gone.]

[He could tell no one had been in this room for a while simply by the smell - or lack thereof - of life in it. However, what had drawn his attention hadn't been the vacancy, but the gramophone and stack of records clearly visible from the door as he'd opened it.

Music filters out into the hallway - Sinatra, at first, then Dean Martin later, switching now and then between the two. R sits on the floor and sways gently from side to side, eyes closed.]