The smile dies, some of the facade crumbling away. He catches it in time, he thinks, but he can’t help the way his mouth tightens as he takes them from her fingers. He holds them, looking at them properly for the first time in thirty years. The weight of everything he wants to forget hits hard, and he glances up to her - her gift to him, maybe. If he has these, maybe next time it won’t be so bad. Maybe part of him will remember.