Elena gingerly lifts her hand up and settles it on his shoulder, if only for a brief moment. Caroline would know what to do. She'd know exactly what to say. Her presence alone would be the balm, and she wishes, so much, that she could give that to him.

But she doesn't have much to give. It's all been taken, and what's left is fractured pieces, but she gathers them up as best she can, and she gives. Whatever it means.

"The same thing happens to me," she reveals to him with a mirthless, lopsided smile. She looks down at the journal on her lap, and shakes her head. "Sometimes I'll stare at the blank page for hours. I know all the things I want to say, but I can't get them out somehow."

Maybe because once they're out there, she can't keep them locked up inside anymore. They're real, in a way she can't take back. Some things can only live inside. "It used to be easier," she says. Her smile quirks into something sardonic.

"Back when I was convinced I would be a novelist."

Now all she has are stories of blood and death, and there is no ending. There is forever.