[There would probably be a more satisfactory answer to that question if Owen knew who, exactly, Owen was. There are missing pieces in his memory - or even worse, things that feel like memories but aren't quite, that catch him off guard and shake him to his core the few times they happen.

Owen, as far as he knows, is simply who is existing in this moment, and there is no way something like that can just exist. Everything has a beginning and an ending - a source and a conclusion, but Owen has neither. He has no memory of a family, of a life before the Forest of Dreams and his watch over it, only vague feelings of something wrong and a deep sense of dread that twists his heart over the strangest things like thorns around his ankles and filthy children. There's no end to his story, either, because he will always come back from things that should be impossible to come back from. He is an anomaly. An aberration. He doesn't even draw his power from spirits the same way others wizards do...

So how can he just be Owen if nobody, not even himself, knows who or what Owen is? There are only so many indisputable facts about him that there's nothing else to grasp at for an identity.

But he can't say that, because it's a feeling he doesn't fully understand, it just simmers under the surface and gets him to pause momentarily instead of immediately snapping back. He's more lost now then he has been at any point in this conversation - in this entire stay at the island so far - and this whole time he's been feeling adrift at sea with no means to get ashore.]

...I don't know. Does it even matter?

[He sounds sulky, because he's absolutely sulking right now.]

It's all a waste of time when I'm just going to be leaving when these four months are up, anyways, so why bother? There's no Owen in anyone's future.