This is hitting altogether too close to home, and Greta pauses midway through exchanging the blue marker for a green one. It's a struggle not to let her face betray how gutted she feels at Lilly's forthright 'no more baby,' or the larger, awful picture she's painting with a few simple words and some childish scrawls.
She knows, far too intimately, the pain of losing an infant (though at least she can convince herself her son is still alive, if beyond her reach). It might be enough to drive someone over a cliff's edge. But with another child in her arms... no. That is unfathomable.
Does this mean there can be no homecoming for Lilly, either?
Greta glances up at Aziraphale, wondering if Lilly had conveyed this much to him already - if he chose not to divulge it, or if he just couldn't decipher it, or if he'd hoped it was all some sort of fiction and brushed it aside. Lilly's quiet admiration of her work draws Greta's eyes back down to the girl, and she offers a faint, distracted smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Thank you," she says quietly.
What can she say to the rest of it?
Well, she knows exactly what she could say - if she presumes that forging a connection with Lilly is more important than maintaining privacy around the other two people in the room. The girl isn't likely to find Greta's situation all that horrifying if she can speak of her own in such straightforward terms. What's an accidental tumble compared to a deliberate leap?
She doesn't trust her voice to explain that she lost her baby, too, and that it also makes her sad.
Greta clears her throat, steeling herself. Then, she reaches out to press her own fingertips to Lilly's rough approximation of a cliff. "Greta fell," she explains, tapping the picture once for emphasis. Her voice is steadier than she'd thought it would be. Tell it like a story, like a thing that happened to someone else. "And then I was here. Just like you."
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She knows, far too intimately, the pain of losing an infant (though at least she can convince herself her son is still alive, if beyond her reach). It might be enough to drive someone over a cliff's edge. But with another child in her arms... no. That is unfathomable.
Does this mean there can be no homecoming for Lilly, either?
Greta glances up at Aziraphale, wondering if Lilly had conveyed this much to him already - if he chose not to divulge it, or if he just couldn't decipher it, or if he'd hoped it was all some sort of fiction and brushed it aside. Lilly's quiet admiration of her work draws Greta's eyes back down to the girl, and she offers a faint, distracted smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Thank you," she says quietly.
What can she say to the rest of it?
Well, she knows exactly what she could say - if she presumes that forging a connection with Lilly is more important than maintaining privacy around the other two people in the room. The girl isn't likely to find Greta's situation all that horrifying if she can speak of her own in such straightforward terms. What's an accidental tumble compared to a deliberate leap?
She doesn't trust her voice to explain that she lost her baby, too, and that it also makes her sad.
Greta clears her throat, steeling herself. Then, she reaches out to press her own fingertips to Lilly's rough approximation of a cliff. "Greta fell," she explains, tapping the picture once for emphasis. Her voice is steadier than she'd thought it would be. Tell it like a story, like a thing that happened to someone else. "And then I was here. Just like you."