The mare stares at the melancholy reflection of the train's window, lost in thought as her friend chatters forth.
"...it'th like a mythtery bag, ya know. Jutht what wath that Ruthtico hiding?"
"Grubber," she stares at the shattered feature of the image's forehead, ".....is there a reason to continue anymore?"
He listens closely to her words.
"A constant reminder that I'm already one hoof in the grave, that disfigurement is nothing but a sign of limitations on how I can't perform the simplest of tasks that others can."
"Well actually, after theeing what other Unicornth can do, I think it'th a thymbol of thtrength."
"....."
"You went with a broken horn through motht of your life and lived fine without it fixed. How many unicornth do you think can live with a broken horn?"
"....." she peered at him, letting the words sink in.
"Now onto another important thing; Bundevara or Makmur?"