He walks with her because there's nowhere else to go. He feels a slow compression on his chest, tightening with every step, the encroaching domesticity feeling like little more than a trap he's sinking into. Why is he letting this happen? Why is he letting her believe this?

How does he explain that he's dead, that she should just forget him, that he's not the son she probably left behind?

"I - I'm okay," he stammers as she fusses over him, once they're inside the strange little cottage. "I'm just really tired."

He hesitates, looking at her, eyes searching hers. Surely she'll figure this out. She has to, somehow. He can't be that much like her son. He's not a good son. He lost touch with his parents so quick after college, never answered their calls (it wasn't safe) never went home for Christmas (it wasn't safe). He doesn't deserve this now, this affection that isn't rightfully his.

"I could eat," he murmurs, because it seems simpler.