[Removing his hand from his face to return it to his side, Ferran looks away, eyes focused on a distant spot in the soot. Here and now, he had no other knowledge—only a singular determination to cling to.]

I don't know.

[The answer comes without much hesitation, but with an edge. He'd been wondering why since that awful day, nearly two weeks now. His brow furrows with bitterness he doesn't bother to repress.]

That's probably part... of why my friends didn't believe me.

[No motive, no evidence, a claim from the authorities that made plenty of sense. The echoes of that memory reverberate in the dream:

"Someone did this."

There's a pause—during that time his friends had exchanged looks, surprise on their faces, but here there's only silence before a young man's deep voice responds, filled with trepidation.

"Why?"

"I... don't know."

"You're talking about murder." Another boy speaks up, serious, followed by a young woman's pleading.

"Ferran, that's—that's crazy. It was an accide—!"

"I knew you'd say the same thing as everyone else...!"

The echo ends, and Ferran's scowl has darkened. He hasn't spoken to them since; he won't speak to them again for months.]

... and why would they? It's just a spoiled rich boy who never had to worry about anything, looking for someone to blame when he finally learns what real suffering is like...

[He forces his eyes shut, jaw clenched, and tries to steady his shuddering breaths.]