[ He watches her for a moment longer, quiet, pensive, and when she finally finishes her story, he tuts softly and shakes his head, almost scolding. ]

Quit apologizing. The truth is hardly a burden.

[ He's never been any good at comfort, and this time is no different. He's no honey-tongued priest with words to soothe. He wouldn't know how to be.

All he can do is try, in his own way, folding his arms and frowning at the wall on the other side of the room. Not at her. ]

The past is the past. You can't fix it. Either it becomes a lesson learned, or an anchor around your feet. Which is it for you?