It makes sense, much more sense why she would be here now, and his face creases in sympathy. Turning to where she points he lets his eyes drift over the door frame, thinking on how much change would have seen. How much it must have hurt to have a home ripped apart and turned into something else. To have the world change around her, and yet be forced to stay an invisible constant.

"That must be difficult," he says, then frowns and turns back to her. "Forgive me, it is perhaps a useless sort of thing to say -- it is only that... I suppose I wish I could do something, it is in the nature of people to wish that, yet your home cannot be given back to you. Your life cannot be given back. It is a bitter sort of feeling, to know you are useless in the face of another's grief."