She lets him storm around and vent, herself rooted in place, unmoving save for what little turn of her head she must to follow his paces. It takes patience and mindfulness to keep her expression as firmly neutral as she can, despite a swelling want to cut in or, gods help her, weep, but she's practiced. The only practice she hasn't had is doing this sort of thing in front of the ghost of someone she dearly loved. Loves. Ugh.

But amidst the fuming, some key notions appear - things that make her heart squeeze in a different way.

"...Whatever you would have bet earlier, you lost." She speaks softly only when there is enough of a lapse of time in all of that to fill. "Because the words you speak now have far more sense in them than they would've, were you still the one I knew."

Despite his pain, or perhaps in spite of it, she finds she's proud of him. It won't do him much comfort now - maybe not ever, but it's something she can keep to herself, lock away for her own reflection. One more page.