Greta stills when a familiar voice calls her name, then watches, already resigned, as the Balladeer comes loping toward her. He's one of the people she's been deliberately putting off the past few days, in part because she knew how easy it would be. If anyone would be inclined to take her texts at face value, he would. Now, of course, she feels horribly guilty for it -- not least of all because she hadn't had the sense to say she was ill, or something else that would excuse how ghastly she probably looks.

"Hello," she says as he nears her, offering a strained smile. God, she really doesn't want to tell him what's happened. He's such a ray of bloody sunshine, and he's happy here. She doesn't even know what bringing him down would look like, and frankly, she doesn't want to find out. "Busy day?" she asks with a nod towards his guitar. "It must be nice to finally have good busking weather."