Claudius taught himself to identify fabric by feel. When he settles back into his body, every draped layer surrounding him feels like something familiar -- cotton spun from cotton blooms, silk spun from silkworms. Somewhere bolls must form on mallow branches, like white pearls form within the shell. Somewhere there must be groves of mulberry trees, and the children of wild moths emerging from their eggs to feed. Even worlds away, he knows it must be warm there, or the eggs wouldn't hatch. The mulberries wouldn't fruit. It all springs from the same source. Even worlds away, he knows breathing leaves must fill the sunlit air with oxygen. People live and walk beneath them, who couldn't live without them.

There's plenty to think about. Wryly, Claudius realizes that's another ancillary thought -- thinking about thinking, typical -- but he breathes in, sharing that air, the same air that brings Wangji's voice to him.

Voices, too, are breath. He lets Wangji's words fill his lungs, and become a part of him. Perhaps he'll form some fruit from it.