She keeps a vise grip on her own hands to keep them from reaching out again, on her lungs and throat to keep her breath steady and silent, in and out and in. Her control almost fails her when she remembers -- easily, gently, like snow settling -- how she learned to do that, and why.

And I need to dig out what he left inside of me --

The words that would help him are nowhere in reach, nowhere in sight. She doesn't even know what they would look like.

"Oh," is what she says instead, barely more than a breath, because she can't say nothing at all; if she can't say anything that will help, at least she can say something that means I'm here.