He flinches, in the way of someone who doesn't like being caught off guard, in the way of someone who is never, ever totally at ease. Garak pauses, the glass of kanar -- brown, slightly viscous like syrup -- held halfway to his lips, then he puts it down.

"Now, people have spoken to me of ghosts," he's not sure who he's talking to, exactly, or if there's anyone at all, but if there is, "and I have to say, I don't think I believe in them, but if there's someone there...?"

He lets the sentence go unfinished.