Yes.

[ It doesn't feel like enough. Maelle is the flickering candle flame that's lit his life and Emma's ever since she came to them. She was his little shadow, following him to the Hanging Gardens, around the house, around Lumiere, always happy to chatter about her day or his, always willing to tease him out of any blue moods gathering like storm clouds about his head. He'd lost Sophie and the life they might have had, but he still had Maelle.

Still has Maelle. He has to believe she's somewhere out there, safe and alive, that his failure to protect her hadn't cost her the rest of her already too-short life. ]

She's my sister. [ His expression flickers, scrunches: that's not quite right. ] My daughter.

...Both, sort of. I can't...

[ His head tilts to the side, glance sliding away. It's always been difficult for him to find the words he needs when he's trying to talk about someone, something, that really matters. His hands lift, moving back and forth through the air, as if he could more accurately illustrate the words that are escaping him. ]

She's— well, my sister and I, we, uh—

[ He grimaces at himself and lets his hands drop to hand loosely over his knees. ]

Yes, I do. I have to find her.