[He doesn't say anything for a while, just listening. Stories like this are important, and the least you can do is listen when someone offers them. Like now.]

[Although he can't help but think, that for anyone else -- and the mental images of dozens of different scars flick through his mind, the vague sort of horror seeing every one of them and not knowing where they came from, seeing his face in the mirror for the first time and not recognizing it -- for anyone else that would be different.]

[Wouldn't it?]

[He doesn't say that out loud, however. He doesn't have the right to minimize someone else's possible hurt.]

He never told you where they came from? That... seems a little weird.

[But then he's lifting his real fingers to touch the mark across his face. Almost like he wants to hide it in his hand.]

I... don't really have a story to tell, there, sorry. [A pause, heavy and reluctant.] I don't know where it came from.