Every step felt like a mile. His chest ached, the backs of his eyes stinging. Ghost hated crying. He didn't cry, but these days it felt like that was all he could do when he was in the safety of his own room. He signs in at the front desk, hating that this has become a part of his routine. Why couldn't it have ended up differently? Maybe if they had found you sooner? If they'd paid just a bit more attention to you on the mission where you'd been taken from them? Every 'what if' bounces around in his head, and yet he can never make sense of them. He walks down the sterile, white hallways, knowing the way to your room by heart. How could he not when he was here every single day when he wasn't out in the field? He pauses, hand on the doorknob, before releasing a heavy sigh and pushing it open.

You sit in a chair by the window, a vacant look permanently fixed onto your features. The bruises, the cuts, they were all gone. But the scars that hurt the most were invisible, something he couldn't see no matter how hard he tried. He takes the seat across from you, silence stretching between you like a chasm he couldn't quite figure out how to cross. He wishes he could see just a glimpse of the person you were before. Before the torture. Before the unspeakable things you had no doubt experienced. He wished you could be the person you were before he'd failed you. His voice is tight, and he has to swallow back all of the apologies. They taste like lies, they feel like broken glass going down. He knows you probably don't hear them anyway. So he settles on the only thing he can possibly manage to say.

"Hello, Love."