Liara paused. "There is one other thing, Shepard." She laid something on the desk. It was a sheet of paper, water-damaged and crumbling. "They found this among the wreckage of the Normandy. None of the survivors claimed it. I--I thought that perhaps..."
It was a drawing of Liara. Athair Shepard stood still, staring down at it, feeling recognition thudding in the pit of his stomach. He had lain awake thinking of this girl, remembering her leaning over the Normandy's science workstation, the gentle neon light softening her skin so she seemed lit from within. She had never sensed his eyes on her.
He looked back up at the pale face and hollow eyes. This Liara was harder, colder, closed off like a submarine preparing to dive. The high neck of her dress was tight against her throat. He could see no hint of the young archeologist who had once stammered and blushed at his teasing.
Shepard turned away. "Soldiers don't sketch," he said.