Elvis stills at the mention of his father, unable to help it. That wound, the loss of him, feels a hell of a lot fresher than the bruises at his throat or knuckles rubbed raw, and he'd wonder why Anabelle is mentioning it at all until it occurs to him that she might not know. There's nothing in her words to indicate either way. While it would probably be most sensible to clear the air and get everything out in the open right away, it isn't a subject he can bring himself to breach just yet. Even talking about his suicide attempt, or near one, is more comfortable than telling her that part of what drove him to stand on a chair with a rope around his neck in the first damn place was returning home to find his dad's dead body. He hadn't even been there, never got to say goodbye.

"These did," he says, catching her gaze for just a moment before he gestures up to where sunlight is streaming through the flower petals, everything still tinted golden from it. Even here, mayne especially here, they really are miraculous, almost as much as the warmth of Anabelle's body so near his own is. "Shutters blew open right when I was about to do it, and then all I could see..." He turns to look at her, almost (not quite) apologetic. "You were right."