There's a hand on her elbow, and Greta looks to its owner, blinking her into focus. It takes a few moments for the woman's question to register, and then she lets out a hiccup of incredulous laughter. It's the wrong reaction, and she immediately regrets it, but it can't be helped. None of this can be helped; that's rather the point, isn't it? Nothing to be done.

"Um." For a moment -- just one -- she thinks about unloading everything, letting it spill out of her in a torrent. The woman's a perfect stranger, but what does that matter? What does anything matter?

But she can't. If she tells anyone, friend or stranger, that will make it real.

"I'm, er... I just--I need to get," she can't call it 'home,' "to my building. Candlewood." She straightens, gingerly prying her hand off of the bench. "Sorry, I'm a bit... out of sorts."