John has been watching him, silently and for far too long to be polite. He's a skinny, quiet man, and with the grand black wings at his back, he's arranged himself a bit like a vulture perched at a nearby table. Occasionally he gives a shuffle of feathers or a puzzled little sigh.

It's just— there are moments where this man moves like Arthur. The way he ghosts his fingertips along things before he first picks them up, the way he might turn his head towards sound. Arthur was no ordinary blind man, not with John murmuring in his mind as confidant and guide, and so John isn't certain what these things ought to look like. But he does wonder.

Finally he speaks up. His voice is inhumanly deep, distorted and tinny, but the tone is tentative. Longing, maybe. He has still never eaten anything more exciting than oatmeal with chocolate chips.

"That... smells very good."