[There's a single spot of colour just above the door. In inexperienced hand, sloppily painted, Hearth and Home stretched across, with smaller words scattered around it. Upon closer inspection, Prompto may recognize some of the names of outer provinces.

Galahd was written up there in Nyx's own hand; his name messy underneath. It's been a long time since he looked at it.

He moves to sit on one of the bunks, resting his elbows on his knees and linking his fingertips together.]

Most of us were refugees. Kids from small towns that had no hope of standing up against the roll of the empire. I guess you could say I was a "ghost" when I arrived in Insomnia.