He closed his eyes tightly, screwing his face up in concentration. He thought he could remember them – just glimpses of who they had been; the smell of parchment and ink; a bright laugh – and he desperately tried to hold onto the image he was getting of his parents. It probably wasn't a memory – he was too young when they died to be able to remember anything about them – but it was the closest he would come. Piecing together what various people had told him and looking through old photo-albums. It wasn't perfect – nothing ever would be – but it was enough.