A faint line appears between her brows as she looks up from his hands to his face. Is he really saying that he played nothing but murder ballads before? She wants to think that impossible, but this dream has upended her ideas of what does and does not fall within the realm of possibility (at least as far as his universe is concerned).

"I hope you were able to play for fun before," she says, trying to sound light but unable to fully mask an undercurrent of concern. Bad enough to be forced to revisit the same places over and over and deal with the same unpleasant group of people without also being limited to one little list of songs.