Houston, We Have Another Character

The voices buzz up again, frantic, reaching new levels of noise, new heights of pain in his head. Dot clasps his head in his hands, willing the agony away, but nothing he does, nothing he can do, eases the pain, the noise, the din, he just wants some goddamn quiet, and when he thinks he can't take anymore, when he knows that the noise is going to kill him, it stops. Suddenly. Completely. Silence like he hasn't known in ages.
And then the man speaks.
You could bring the sun to tears, he says. It is a whisper, but Dot can hear it as if they were standing side by side. The voice is gravel against brick, out of practice, disused. But familiar, known to Dot like the road, like the man himself. Another piece of another puzzle. Dot fights the urge to talk, to reply, the man can't possibly be talking to him, can't know he is there, hasn't turned, hasn't seen him, Dot is silent, Dot is hidden, Dot is nowhere.