Gilia shakes her head. Hands moving to settle in front of her. One carefully laced over the other, fingers curling around neatly as she looks over the body. Bones and cloth.

"I think... yes. They loved this place. One would not decorate so long, all their life, with nothing else, if they did not love it." A simple view, perhaps, a hopeful view. But even so desolate a place, must have hope, musn't it? "They should stay with what they loved, do you not suppose?"

She looks attentively up at him, eyes soft and wide, unsure in making a declaration so assertively, looking - looking for the assurance of another to make sure it was not too bold.