[ she can't fathom it. losing a mother so young, growing up so fast, in a world full of monsters and nightmares. wanting to be normal. she can understand it, in her own way, has felt that horror and terror and loss and played that pretend, but not like this, as this. when she thinks of the man in front of her, suffering all that so young...
it's not pity; it's not even sympathy that touches her. it's the longing to help, ease the burden, but knowing there's no certain way or how. elena reaches to move her hand up his chest, curls her fingers about his shoulder next to his neck with her other hand.
she wants to ask: if he still misses it, if he found what killed his mother, but neither questions are important. she knows intimately how much being or acting normal and having answers are not closure. ] What did you do?