[The night is still but for a soft breeze, audibly rustling leaves in the background of Sheik's broadcast. His voice is low, soft, and carries a rather bitter little sigh.] ...Hmph.
I suppose it doesn't matter how many times these things are sent, nor who sends them...
One can never get used to such things.
[There's a long pause, as if he's
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He may have heard it before, but the Song of Healing is played for him regardless.]
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Strange, how dreams can overlap.
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...I had a dream like yours, once.
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His voice is soft.]
What happened?
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You get so used... to wearing a mask...
... it's hard to remember, sometimes, which face is the real face...
[He trails off in a way that suggests he's asking if that was what Sheik felt.]
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Sometimes... we must look at the sum of all parts.
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... and can't share it. Not now. Not like this, where someone couldn't see him.
So he closes his mouth and gives a small noise of assent.]
It's not easy when you forget it yourself.
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...No. It's not. But few things are.
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That's true.
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It's true.
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