She doesn't bother to move-- remains eerily still, in fact, as he attempts to comfort her. As if that's a thing that can be done, in this moment. Maybe because she didn't experience much in the way of affection from her own family, it's harder to instinctually recognize in the gestures of others. But intellectually, she knows he means well.

People usually do, whether or not it goes that way. Still.

"I followed my brother," she replies, voice croaky but without variation in tone, like she's reading a grocery list, not recalling the memories of someone else's life that remained fuzzy in her head like a dream. "I raised him. I failed him. He was the only thing in my life that mattered, and he went in. I followed so he wouldn't die alone. Then we did anyway. I'd call that nothing."