Time. Something that Thor has all too much of. It's been nearly a year since the last battle of the Avengers, only two years since Ragnarok. A blink of an eye, and yet an eternity all the same, with thousands more years waiting ahead of him. He feels at once as though it is not enough, and yet frighteningly long. Even knowing that his friends and family have gone on to golden halls and green fields, their absence wears a hole in the tapestry of his own life, loose threads still grasping for what was once there.

He envies Amelia a little, even though he knows that he shouldn't. He too has had good dreams of those who are gone, memories of childhood, and woken to discover himself alone. But even those are preferable to the images that still sometimes haunt him at night. His hand slides up to wrap around his upper arm, where metal meets flesh, beneath the fabric of his sweater.

"Sometimes I can still feel it," he says, not really wanting to speak of this at all and yet wanting her to understand why he cannot simply decide to let go. "I... dream of the attack, sometimes. Watching them die in front of me." Only a year ago, he would not have been able to speak of such things without a panic attack, and even now he can feel that tightness in his chest. But he has learned how to help himself, and he stops and breathes, focusing on the kitchen and the woman sitting across from him, concern written into her face.