Comfort food
The first four years were devoid of memory, flavoured only by an overpowering cold.
Then, there had been that woman who gave him stew and a blanket. She'd had a mean little dog, didn't she? The dog had been hungry, too, and then someone had taken the blanket.
That crowd. His first beating, and he'd been so confused. They made noises, like the dog, like the woman. Vocalizing. He'd never learned how.
And then the woman, and the food. Safe. Warm. Mortal.
Delving too far into one's own psyche was a waste of time, Legato decided, reaching for another biscuit.