"It's happy crying," he tells her over the thickness in his voice as he leans further back. She's so beautiful. He can imagine a baby, with coffee-colored skin and almond-shaped eyes and Korra's hair, dark and thick and beautiful, which he prefers over his own. He likes it, because it's a part of him like his own father, but really, children should resemble their mothers. Mom is usually prettier.

"I'm really gonna be that person. This is seriously the happiest day of my life."

One of his hands strays to his own neck, brushing beneath the collar of his shirt to find the cool crystal hanging from its twine there.

Your keepsake is broke, old lady. I don't feel very cursed at all.