He doesn't know how to talk to her. Caring for children has never been his interest nor his strong suit—but he remembers. He remembers how his father treated him; he remembers those hissing words and sharp blows. He knows, at least, a blueprint of what not to do, and Klaus has never been one to cut corners nor hold back. He is no fool. What point would there be when he knows she understands?

(It's why he's here. He cares, in ways he cannot help but care.

In ways he cannot feel nor care for his daughter.)

The shudder of her shoulders does not go unnoticed, nor the absent explanation of her vague words that accompany it. Grief and anguish bottle up in his throat not at that, but at her steadfast loneliness. (He believes that too. That there's no one for her to trust.) "People are selfish, desperate things. Those of us with heart hurt more to become them." He has, from the moment he woke to find blood staining his hands, the body parts of his village's people strewn around him. She is hurting, so clearly, right in front of him. "I hope you find some peace. I'm told there are always moments," he adds softly, thinking of Camille, thinking of Hope with a small smile. "And people, when we're lucky, eventually."

He pauses, his smile fading. "Whatever you had to do, you did it because that is what it takes to survive. What is vicious is not always right or wrong—it's necessary."