[In so few words and such a simple gesture, he proves to her that she was right. The hand at her shoulder is warm, heavy enough to have presence and meaning. He doesn't claim to understand her pain, and expresses his sympathy short and sweet. Without any overdone emotion or some attempt to draw more out of her. Relieved, it's easy to offer him a small smile in response, a nod in acknowledgement. She reaches up to lay her fingers over his, just briefly, before dropping it away once more.]

Thank you. There are some who would say I should take comfort in the fact that he died a hero of our country, saving a teammate and a child, but I fail to see how I could. I knew him better than anyone. The way he died, the choice he made was no less than a representation of the man I always knew him to be. He wasn't suddenly a better person, one of more value or substance simply because of circumstances.

[What comfort is there to take in how he died when the fact remains that he is gone? She shakes her head slightly, expression a clear indication that she's pushing the memories away. Forcing them deeper where she always hold them safe.]

I'm sorry. I didn't come here to burden you with my grief. I thought I would watch you teach others, see what skills you might have to share.