Here is the bench, there is the cathedral. A different soundscape, now. No quaint horse and buggies baiting tourists into generous tips. Someone is playing a metal-stringed guitar—although, Lestat must reminds himself, all guitars are metal-stringed now—and there are less people out roaming in the wake of the hurricane.

But it is their park, their bench, their cathedral. Lestat sits, as he has done many times, crossing a leg over, arms folding around himself.

"Me?" he asks, as if the question is odd. "Yes, Louis. Nothing has happened to me."

A lot of nothing. Louis, though—

"What about you? Did you come here become you're not okay?" An earnest question.