Wesley noticed the sketchbook on the coffee table in his and his mother's quarters. "What's that?" he asked her one evening after dinner, shortly after she'd returned from Rutia IV.
"Oh," she said, picking it up to put it in her bedroom. "Kyril Finn drew these. Of me." On second thought, Dr. Crusher handed the sketches to her son. "You can look at them, if you like."
A mixture of disgust and awe showed on Wesley's face as he looked over the pictures. "These are actually really good." He gave them back to his mother. "Are you going to keep them?" he asked.
"I think I will," she said quietly.
"Why?" Wesley's question hung in the air.
"Well, just in case I ever forget that acts of terrorism ask more questions than they could ever hope to actually answer," she said, somewhat cryptically. "And to remember what Finn could have been... if things had been different."
"I think I understand," Wesley said.
Dr. Crusher shook her head and squeezed her son's shoulder with her free hand before going into her bedroom with the sketches. "I hope you never truly have to."