No one is kind. For so long Klaus was what he believed the world to be: cruel, terrible, selfish, paranoid. For hundreds of years he walked the earth not believing in what made people good nor their capacity for it, so damaged and lost and torn he was inside. But he was wrong. He learned. Even in the darkest of creatures, there can be light.

It's something he needs to believe, for his daughter.

He thinks of her now, watching Clementine pull herself together. He wonders, even under Hayley's care, what kind of life Hope will live. He wonders, as his daughter, if it'll be like this. It rends his heart. It rends his heart to consider it; it rends his heart to see that pain and uncertainty so raw and real in this girl's eyes.

Klaus follows her into the room slowly, taking his time to take in the abode. How lived in it feels, the clumps and piles of blankets on the bed, the names, carved into the wall. His eyes stay for a moment, eyes burning and throat stoppered before he tears them away and continues to stop beside the bed. Klaus sucks in a sudden breath through his nose at her explanation. His lungs and chest fill slow with anger, indignation, rage. He expels the brunt of them with an exhale. "I hope it wasn't on purpose."