As much as it comforted him to hear Nettie's positive view, Malachi was aware that, if anyone, she was the one person alive that would be biased in his favor. But who else was he meant to ask? Father Richards, who knew him as little as anyone else in Whitby? The little bird that had planted that insecurity within him in the first place?

Nettie's hands found his shoulders, and he allowed himself to relax the tension oft kept bound within them. His smile returned, smaller now, but genuine in its imperfection.

She was too kind to him. Perhaps a part of him had just wanted to hear what he already knew: that it did not matter what he was too much of, if the end result was still the same.

Malachi gave a hum once she'd released her gentle hold, and he moved to continue their walk.

"Perhaps. But I was not his responsibility."

If there was anything his brother should have done, it was to provide that support for his own daughter instead. Levi owed him nothing; Malachi was but a stranger that'd lived in his home, or so it had always felt.

"Enough about that," he dismissed, "thank you. I just wanted to hear your thoughts. Tell me about you, have you met anyone, done anything?"