[There it is, spilling forth. The information she's kept from him, the context that can finally build the foundations of this strange tale taking shape. But all of it sounds... improbable. Fallen through the cracks of time? Too young? The flat all wrong?

Pieces slotting together. They form a fantastical picture, and yet they lend credence to certain suspicions.]

You have been here before then? Is that why you knew my flat was upstairs? Why you seek something specific in this room — left behind?

[Some part of him—empathy that still exists, despite his listlessness—informs him belatedly that quick-fire questions might not help her calm down.]

Sit, sit. Sit and breathe, my dear.