For awhile, Geralt leans against the doorway, watching. She hums with an eager sort of energy, the kind that's never within these walls. He thinks, she must be the first to have set foot in here and been raised here without any memories of the violence that befell it or the horrors that lie beneath it. To her, it's just.

Home.

He glances up sharply. Which one. Somehow, it'd not occurred to him—of course she'd have a room. He doesn't know which one should be hers, which one she might've been given.

He peers out of the hallway, taking a step. He could choose one right now, but that doesn't feel right.

"Which one feels like yours?"