A moment of hesitation, as he considers if lingering might trigger another effect. Admittedly, it's yet to happen twice.

He looks away after a second. Her words confirm what he suspected. Can't say he's too surprised. An uneasiness unfurls. Not peaceful could mean a lot of things, when it comes to him.

"Peace is a little absent sometimes," he replies. "Sorry for the unpleasantries."

The apology is dry, but in some ways, he means it, too. He's lived with his memories for a long time; they aren't images he'd inflict on others without warning. Maybe at some point, a more fortunate soul will receive a vision of him doing little more than petting his horse but so far that seems not to be the case.

His gaze returns to hers, stays there. He can't tell if it's the memories he gleaned of her as a little girl or if it's something else about her demeanour that stirs an edge of concern. He only knows that she can't possibly be as fine as she says. It's taken him a good handful of decades to get over his shit. (Those who know him best would argue over it remains debatable.) He doesn't expect her to shake off what she may have seen in a matter of minutes.

So what would normally be a blunt question becomes more of a quiet offer. "Do you want to tell me what you saw?"