What a sad and sorrowful tale he is telling her in response to her question, though she doesn't quite regret asking, rather feeling grateful that he would share it with her. She recognizes the loneliness in his fate without words, has a sense for it like nothing else; such an unlikely thing to unite them. And there seems to be a smidgen of hope at the end, a possible way home, if he chooses to follow it. That must be a comfort. Yet very far away, it seems.

"I'm sorry, love," she says softly, wishing there was more to say. She'd love to hear what his visits were like, would be more than glad to listen to happier tales of his home, but she'd hate to push him. So instead she offers, "I fancy my planet must have been destroyed by now, either by my brother or by our sun. But... I suppose that is all right, so long as one has the nigh infinity of a universe to keep one company." She, too, keeps on building, adding another cylinder to the larger base, smoothing it down, pressing a small hole into the center. The snake seems to have tired of reenacting spirals and winds over to the shade, raising his head to regard the owl inquisitively.