( He could deflect, or downplay, but... between the recent loss, and the echoes of memories and associations he harbors for the person across from him, he decides not to. He can give away something real here out of optimism, or hope, or misguided loyalty.

So, after a beat, he casts his eyes down toward the wood grain of the bar. A smile graces his lips, but it's small, and sad, and barely there. )

It's not just a bar. ( He says, after a quiet beat. There's an earnestness in his voice, in his posture, in his expression. ) This, uh... this place belonged to somebody I cared a lot about, and it burned down maybe... fifteen years back.

( It wasn't home, but it could have been. )