[That phrase strikes some kind of distant chord with him, a feeling he's used to by now. It's like the distant refrain of some half remembered song, where none of the words manage to come back, just the echo of a melody you can't quite pin down. He shakes it off, as always. He knows the folly of trying to chase down those fleeting memories in his head: the more he tries, the more they outpace him. Still, his response feels automatic.]
no subject
You've got the choice to return a gift.