"Simon."

In the waking world, at the moment, this is where River would stare down at the table or her hands, tense and fretful and quiet. River's not much good with awkward subjects, and emotionally laden ones.

Here, now, in this waystation of a hedge-chamber, she only breathes out, and watches two streams of white smoke twine through the air between them.

Low: "I want him to stay."

It's not miserable. It's not pleading. It's just quiet, and wistful.