Every few months, Flora returns to St. Mystere for a weekend. She says it's only to visit Bruno, but she and Hershel both know that she misses the almost-human residents, the mechanical village that raised a human child. She refuses to let him drive her, but takes the train. "Don't go on any adventures without me, Papa Hershel," she says with an impish grin as he sees her off. "You know how I hate that!"
Indeed he does. Even after the terrors of "Future London," Flora insists on joining his investigations. Though his anxiety for her remains constant, he no longer has the heart to say no. He suspects Luke has passed the mantle of "assistant and partner" to Flora, as Emmy once passed it to Luke, but it would be ungentlemanly to ask.
It's rather odd, he thinks, how every one of his self-named assistants has possessed the same streak of selfless stubbornness. That he finds it reassuring, he rarely admits to himself. That it feels somehow wrong to investigate without one of them by his side, he does his best to ignore. That the same stubbornness led him to go with Randall to Akbadain, to seek out the truth behind Claire's death, to follow Luke's letter to Misthallery—he folds away under "the way of a true gentleman."
On Flora's nights away, he often can't sleep. His minuscule flat seems enormous in the silence left without Luke begging him for a puzzle over breakfast ("but Professor, how can you POSSIBLY cut a pancake into eleven equal pieces?!"); Flora humming to herself while reading a borrowed chemistry tome (until Luke interrupts her, at which point a pillow fight breaks out); Emmy inviting herself over and then shooing him out of the tiny kitchen ("we all know you can't cook anything but grilled cheese, Professor; let me handle this!"); or, once, Desmond Sycamore—Descole—my brother, he thinks before he stops himself—teaching Aurora and Luke to play rummy.
His office proves no better (if anything, the memories are stronger there), which is how he ends up climbing in the Laytonmobile and heading into the countryside to stargaze.
Claire used to drag him out here sometimes, when she thought he was working too hard. It's a perfect clear night, if a bit chilly. The sky glitters above him; there isn't a sound to be heard. It's lonely, yes, but rather peaceful. Even as he wipes a tear from his cheek, he smiles.
You would have loved them, Claire. All of them.
Hershel Layton touches the brim of his hat, in a quiet salute to the stars.