Duma didn't quite expect the vigour with which The Doctor would shake his hand, and he looked slightly concerned at first, before noting the ease at which The Doctor made himself at home. He certainly smiled a lot. Maybe he really did like the broken down old chapel.

Duma gently took the piece of paper back, positioning the pen under his last sentence. It was awkward. Writing didn't allow for conversation, and not allowing for conversation was the blanket he had wrapped himself in.

Duma didn't look at the Doctor, rather, he stared at the flickering candle flames as he telepathically sent out the silent message Can you hear me?