The first look Greta shoots him is exasperated, because this isn't a dream; that's impossible. But then, sluggishly, memories resurface of a Rift and a too-everything city, and Greta stops in her tracks. Even the Woods fall silent as the giant's not-so-distant rumblings lapse into a startled hush.

It's not impossible. She's had such dreams before, ones in which strangers had bluntly told her none of it was real. Last time, it had been a comfort. This time, she isn't so sure. She looks at the man again, her lips pressed into a thin line as she tries to decide if she should be grateful for the information, or if she should resent it. It's a dream, but it's also home. She's still standing in the Woods, mossy ground beneath her feet and ancient trees on all sides.

She reaches for her neck, unsurprised when her fingers close around a thin, brown scarf. Is her husband somewhere out here? Is her son?

"Well," she finally says, aiming for 'brusque' and landing closer to 'gutted.' She clears her throat, tries again. "Dream or not, I still have things to do. Excuse me." There. That was downright civil. She gives the man a stiff nod, then turns on her heel and resumes striding through the trees.