[Ford's spent much of the day in his room, aside from a brief excursion out in the morning to feed himself. He's been reading over Fiddleford's journal for most of that time, his fingertips tracing each handwritten page almost like he's trying to reach the hand that made each mark. It hurts, reading things about himself that are less than flattering from the beginning of their time here, but seeing that tiny heart at the end bolsters him. He spends a long time just rereading those last few words, only stopping when he hears a knock at his door.
Ford clears his throat and sets the journal aside.]
no subject
Ford clears his throat and sets the journal aside.]
...Come in.