[ Would it have mattered, what answer Gale gave?

This is a question Godfrey has never thought to ask himself before this very moment - before Gale had taken a seat across that table, pale and drained at the mere sight of him, and tried to put a band-aid on the sucking bullet wound he'd left him with.

Is there any answer that would not have left him feeling hollow? Could he have said anything that would have alleviated the pain, even a little?

Godfrey stares at him. He studies his face, the conviction with which he gives an answer that, reasonably, he knows should provide some measure of relief. It is hardly a cure for the years of pain, of loneliness, of doubt and terror and slow-dawning victimhood echoing in his chest, emptied and pitted. But it should be a balm, something to lift a small sliver of pain from him.

He stares at him, and he feels nothing. There is no relief from the slow rise in temperature at the back of his neck, the liquid heat welling behind his eyes. ]

I suppose that I'm meant to simply take the word of the man who can change my thoughts and memories at will.

[ The thin, tiny tremor in his throat, even as he fights to keep it stiff. ]