Emmet had been happy to get rid of them, seeing no need to linger on that portion of his life, but he’d underestimated just how desperate he’d been back in the thick of things. It seemed like every other time someone went to get something from the closet or shook out a blanket, a wayward bulletin would tumble out, unwilling to be left in the past.

Ironic, considering where their subject had wound up, but after months of finding the fliers at inconvenient times-- which was also a little on the nose-- Emmet was in no mood to humor the metaphor. He knew there was no forgetting what had happened, but it would be nice not to face a reminder every six hours.

Ingo never breathed a word about the posters, but there was something going on there. On more than one occasion, Emmet had glanced over to find his twin staring at his own likeness with a closed off expression, even for him. He refused to walk over and snatch the offending leaflets away, but, whenever he found one himself, was quick to fold it into haphazard fourths before anyone saw.

It was a little strange; trashing the greater portion of them had been cathartic, a definitive end to their function and his isolation, but when it was just one here or there, it was almost sad. There was a time in his life when they’d represented a thread of hope, when he’d scattered them so thoroughly that now it was harder to be rid of them than to find one. With that not-so-distant memory attached, picking one up and throwing it away almost felt like giving up, even though, at worst, Ingo was just a room away.

Even more grating was the knowledge that, even if Emmet succeeded in cleaning them all out, there would be some he didn’t have jurisdiction over; at one point, while weighing the pros and cons of interrupting Ingo’s staring contest with himself, he’d caught his brother shuffle the paper to the back of his document stack, and then deliberately take it to his room. In hindsight, it seemed a sure thing that the other sheets he’d handled thusly met the same fate. Emmet had no earthly idea what reason his twin could have for collecting his missing posters, but, going by his demeanor, it couldn’t be productive.

And then the hangup was all but shoved into his lap.

“How… how many did you make?” Ingo asked, eyes dropping to the block of text.

Trusting that he’d been seen in the peripheral vision, Emmet tossed his hands up and gestured one way and then the other, to the apartment as a whole. When it failed to elicit a response, he dropped them and said, “Only Arceus knows.”

Without looking up from the paper, Ingo raised a hand to knead at the space between his eyes.

“How many variations did you make?” He tried again, a moment later.

That, at least, was a question mortal men could answer. “I believe I was up to six.”

“Why?”

“They would frequently be damaged or tear away. It was prudent to replace them.”

“That explains the quantity,” Ingo said dryly, “Not the content.”

Save for the brief warble of paper, the room lapsed into a heavy silence.

“People began to ignore them.” Emmet admitted after a moment. “They became part of the background. If the pictures changed, people looked. It only made sense to update the information accordingly, as well.”

The hand at Ingo’s forehead dropped to idle at his chin, half obscuring his face for all that that mattered. At one point, he inhaled audibly and moved as though he were about to say something, but didn’t follow through.

Gently, even-toned as always, Emmet asked, “Can you explain what you are thinking right now?”

“I just wish that I was still--” The response was nearly immediate-- hasty and, therefore, unfiltered up to the point where Ingo caught up to himself and snapped his mouth shut.

Well that made sense under the circumstances, didn’t it?

Emmet closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to figure out how in the world he could help with this ongoing identity crisis. Before he could formulate an adequate response, though, he was preempted.

“I’m not the person you were looking for.”

“Ingo. That’s not--”

There was the sound of movement and paper warping under a mild breeze. He opened his eyes just in time to see his brother press the sheet to his chest and turn away.

“Memories are ephemeral; if you want to hold onto him, you’ll need something more substantial. I just worry that you’re discarding these prematurely.”