[He's listening, but doesn't respond immediately. Instead, he's pulling out sprigs of loose, fragrant herbs from within his satchel, then returning to the kitchen to find some twine to tie them up at their ends. Weir crosses around her, just to the back, where he hangs them upside-down on a drying rack nailed to the wall.]

The past is still who you are. Whether or not you think you've moved on, I'd wager it's still in there. Somewhere.

[He supposes the normal thing to say is that he's glad she found someone to come to her aid, but he isn't the sort for that kind of sentiment. This much, however, he can mean sincerely:]

But at least it sounds like you have moved on. There's value in that.