"A few." There's a smile, small and a little tight, and their eyes slide away again, off into the darkness. "All of them new. There was." They pause, because it's hard to say, for more than one reason-- one single memory of a parent, good though it is, who is long dead by now and who they'll never get to know, but who will never know what his son turned into. And a reminder that oh, hey, this body used to belong to an actual person.

But it's still a good thing, no matter ho hard it is to say. "There was a father. He used to tell stories."