Thankfully he's still observing Sunny - otherwise, it might have taken longer to catch onto the switch in communication methods. Even still, it takes him some time, to note the switch from drawing to written word, and another moment to find the notebook in his pocket and flip to an appropriate page, mulling over the words.

With the question, he looks over his shoulder, towards the deep black water that they'd just passed over. The glance doesn't last long. The fraught emotion of the Crossing may be fading, but contemplating the way they came from still prompts a frission of uncomfortable tension in him. There's nothing that can be seen there, as it is - only the dark of the water, the inky black barely penetrated by the light of this new landing place.

"I do not know," he admits. "I met a man who claimed to have found a poster from a theater he remembered - perhaps it was made for us. Or perhaps it has always been here, and will be there long after us." He looks forward, now, towards the place where the Ferryman's light lingers. "Where we have come to, I cannot say, either."