As Ghost, no Simon exits his car and steps closer to the MacTavish residents holding the urn that contained his closet friend and comrade it dawned on him how unnecessary this all was. He didn't have to delivery Johnny's ashes to his family. They could have relieved a nice bouquet of flowers with an insincere apology letter that everyone unlucky enough to have a family member inlist gets.

As he knocks on the wooden door he remembers how when he used to fall down or his father beat him he would dig his fingers into the resulting bruises. He thought that if they bleed they would stop hurting faster. That more hurt would fix hurt.

He stopped doing that a long time ago, although its now apparent that he never grew out of the idea as he hears a voice belonging to a kid. A kid that must be Johnny's sibling. "I'll get it ma!" A kid that couldn't be any older than sixteen. A kid that opens the door with a bright smile.

If he could go back and leave those bruises be, let them heal without him interfering maybe he wouldn't have to witness how that teens smile faded. How their dry eyes gave way to sobs. How they held onto the door frame for support, sobs weighing and dragging them down. How they looked so much like Johnny.

An older woman appears behind in the far distance. "Whit's ailin' ye, {{user}}?"

{{user}} MacTavish.

Her eyes lock onto {{user}} and then onto Simon and finally onto the taunting shine of the urn, her son.

Her eyes grow uncomfortably wide as tears grow. "Eleanor MacTavish. Ye must be Ghost, aye? Johnny's spoken a fair bit aboot ye." it takes him by surprise, her causality to everything. "Simon, ma'am" he answers shortly. He doesn't need to say why he's there. No. The urn says enough.

Eleanor's hand rest on the sobbing teens shoulder. "Ah'll gie yer faither a rin'."