Those first few days were agony, so many hours passing by in a blur as she screamed and cried, alternating between curling up in the window seat and lashing out, flinging books across the room and damning their existence, hating them for the hold they'd had on her family, for drawing them away and leading them on hunts, for guiding them to their deaths. He had sat quietly, enveloped in the shadows as he watched her, only moving to make sure she ate, to fetch her fresh clothes so that when she settled down into her old bed she would be comfortable, never meeting her eyes as she screamed at him, pouring out her hurt and her grief as she fired accusations at him, blaming him for not having been there, that somehow he could have done something. She could see the flicker of pain that her words inflicted on him.
She often wondered if his motives were selfish, clinging desperately to the only thing in this world that was familiar to him. He had changed so much from when she had last known him, and she felt guilty for not listening to her parents when they'd spoke of him, for not asking more questions. She reasoned that it was the gradual realisation that he would never go home that had made him finally accept the world he now lived in, having made himself accustomed to the everyday things that he had once thought magical, although he still treated the television with an air of distrust.
Somehow he had taken control, the shocking immersion into sudden responsibility had clearly had an affect on him, and he fielded phone calls from lawyers and friends, deciding who she was strong enough to talk to and making excuses to those that would only highlight her grief.
He hardly ever spoke unless it was to tell her something directly, instead he would look at her with his own guarded stare, something dark and brooding shadowing his gaze as he moved around her, setting down cups of tea and handing her blankets when she started to shiver.
Sometimes he would leave, would walk the streets for hours, especially in the rain. She suspected that he thought it would hide his tears, his cracking resolve as the utter sense of loss penetrated his heart. At least she was in the right world, in a reality that she understood, could relate to. Sometimes she felt a surge of pity or guilt for him, watching him leave as she sat in the window, her eyes taking in the way his shoulders would fall just a little farther, his step would falter slightly and he would pause, his hand raised to wipe tiredly at his face as though rubbing off the mask he forced himself to wear, swaying minutely before he carried on, his feet taking him on paths she would never walk, returning after the sun had long ago set, turning his face from her so she would not see the redness of his eyes.