He’d suggested the museum without much explanation—just a quiet mention over morning tea, the corner of a brochure tucked into his book like an afterthought. You hadn’t expected much from it. A local war exhibit, newly opened. Figured it would be small, respectfully done, maybe a few faded uniforms behind glass.

But when you arrived, it was clear it was more than that.

The place was beautiful in its own solemn way—high ceilings, soft lighting, everything displayed with care. You wandered beside Simon through the first few rooms, taking in the weight of old photographs, personal letters, rusted dog tags laid out beneath glass like names carved into stone. You commented here and there, small things—how fascinating some of the gear was, how real everything felt when it wasn’t just written in a textbook. He nodded quietly, letting you speak.

It took time before you noticed the way his posture had changed.

He wasn’t just observing—he was remembering.

His eyes lingered too long on a burned-out helmet. His jaw clenched at the sound of boots stomping in a looped audio track. In one room, a dimly lit hallway mimicked trench warfare—narrow, close, the air almost too still—and he paused at the threshold, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

You reached for his hand without a word. You just wanted to offer something. A tether. When he didn’t move for a while, you leaned in and whispered, soft and guilty, “We don’t have to stay. We can go somewhere else, if it’s too much.”

But he stopped you—fingers wrapping gently around your wrist, grounding. He shook his head, once. Then looked down at you with a gaze that felt older than the walls around you.

“No,” he said, voice low. Rough. “I want you to see what I’ve gone through. What I’ve experienced. I want you to see what’s going on in my mind when I have nightmares… so that you may excuse me for my behaviour afterwards.”

As if he ever needed to be excused.