[struck by the complexities of Krouse's words, he's left with the swirling thoughts of home, of Will and Abigail. even Bedelia makes an appearance, her voice a line pulled taut and ready to snap. no one had known Hannibal as the three of them did, each in their own peculiar way. his spoon is turned away, balanced on the edge of the ramekin and countertop, reflecting warped surroundings from the smudged silver.

to be understood completely is what Hannibal yearns for, aches for, even. to love and be loved. yet there is nothing for anyone to truly wrap their hands around inside of him, an absence that when found, is cowered from.

'what we owe to ghosts'. he knows how much he owes. he made his choices, perhaps impulsively, but he stands by them. if given the chance to turn back time, however... the thought trails into the distance.

Abigail would have liked him. someone looks back at Krouse, more real and true than anything else in this moment. a marble statue brought to life.]

We owe as much to ghosts as they owe us. They can comfort us, or offer quiet in the inner workings of our minds, just as they can open doors and dismantle them. Memories are the same. [a weighted pause follows, forefinger tapping on counter only twice.] They deserve their place, but how much we give them is our choice.