Every little victory don't matter when nobody seems to care
Winning ten bucks on a scratch-off lotto ticket
The keys you thought disappeared
Every vacant moment you've exhausted all the options
That you thought could fill the hole
Every star you're wishing on just hoping for a little self-control
Tired of feeling selfish
You're tired of feeling restless
You're tired of feeling down
Sometimes he wished he hadn't gone to the Ministry to be turned back to normal. When he was under the influence of the New Year's magic, he'd been happy. An unnatural, pervasive happiness — but happy nonetheless. Now he was normal, and things were normal, and he didn't think he liked normal.

Jemima was going to have a baby, and Noble was scared; Daffodil had a baby, and maybe he'd saved her life, but it wasn't like it mattered; he had not spoken to Miss Hunniford since December. He spent a lot of time in his workshop. Sometimes he worried that Miss Henrietta Cartwright was the only person who understood him, because she was the only person who knew the worst thing Noble had ever done. Sometimes this, all of it, felt like a way for him to make up for the Sanditon hurricane, because he could not come up with another explanation.

He was working on calming potions. They were always popular, and now that it was spring, some mamas were collecting them before the summer started. A knock came at the door. "Come in," Noble called, tone already exasperated. He expected Clem, or maybe one of the other residents — he wasn't expecting anyone.

He missed Grace. He didn't mind when she came to bother him. Well — he'd minded in the past. But now, he missed her enough that he did not think he would mind the intrusion.