His father’s words of wisdom tickled his ear, causing Thomas to pause what he was doing and admire Conor’s beaming, fatherly smile. “Bribed by food?... I can understand that, especially with Ma and Grandma ‘round,” he giggled, fluttering his fingers to wave off the adult as he moved away to retrieve milk with Uncle Al. Various conversations continued behind him as he finished up with setting the table, not really focusing on the details of their words but rather enjoying the sounds as a whole; a muffled comforting clutter of background noise. Alexia’s voice stood out for a second as Thomas overheard the mention of her sewing another sweater for him. It always amazed the child how practical of a mother she were, in fact, even the children at school seemed stunned when he would tell them how his favourite jumper for school was composed by her. He could almost feel his own mother’s love through her handmade cloth made especially for him, sincerity weaved through the needle and in turn, binding the child’s insecure heart. Such clothes came with memories; the soft hum of Alexia’s lips as she worked, the smells of fresh materials amongst the distinct scents of farm... His own lucky charm. As if he didn’t feel like the luckiest kid on earth already.<br/><br/>Something sentimental could be judged from his mother’s sudden change in tone, followed by Grandma’s sweet croon. It was enough information to produce a small smile on his lips - whatever it were about, a unique warmth filled his chest that only family could draw from within him. Finished with his breakfast chores, Rose called out to Thomas, catching him before he had the chance to slip away. He spun around on his toes, tilting his head at her puzzled look. “... What’s wrong with it, Gran?” He parted his lips in contemplation, picturing the steps he took to the sink beforehand in his mind, as he made his way to Rose’s side. “I didn’t do anything?... I think?.. Uhm...” A look of concern furrowed his brow, falling quiet for a moment to stare at the cupboard as he realised he couldn’t provide anything useful towards the small problem. “I’m sorry, Grandma, I don’t know,” he looked up at his elder’s patient expression apologetically, well aware that it wasn’t really his fault per se, but silently concerned that he could not do anything to assist. “I’ll ask Dad ‘bout it,” Thomas noted in an attempt to help, zooming away as a fun thought raced passed his mind. Running along the trail that Conor and Alistair took to the milk room, Thomas heard the distinct, soft voice of Uncle Al and beamed.<br/><br/>“Attention, father duck and Uncle Al!” Thomas raised a palm into the air, a young announcer’s voice chiming from him like a public service announcement as he looked to their backs in the middle of them working, “When you return, could you look at the sink? It may or may not have gotten busted from my powerful water-pouring skills. Vegetables are at stake!... Okay, that’s it, I’m going back now, later!”<br/><br/>He wasn’t sure if they heard him or not, but nonetheless, he buzzed back to the kitchen with a laugh and a hop in his step, sitting promptly onto the counter chair. He propped his arms onto the table and observed the rest of them cook, fixing his glasses up to his eyes. His small act gave him hope that he served at least a tiny bit at use here. “Message sent,” He sheepishly told Rose, rolling his tongue playfully to form the sounds of a bird, or rather, a messenger pigeon.