She'd had a talent for adapting, before, when all of this had started -- she'd taken to survival with tenacity.
It was just undoubtedly strange to be with people again, real people, talking and complicating things and having relationships. Speaking English. Advertising discernible body language. Not tearing eachother apart, at least visibly.
It was all so surreal that when she'd first arrived at the library, she'd nearly been unable to tell them her name; it hadn't made any sense to her that anyone would ask. For so long, nobody had cared about Ellie's name at all -- mostly because there had been nobody. In the end she'd almost told them the wrong one. Maybe that would've been more fun that just being Eloise again -- being Eloise, like waking up from a bad dream.
And people seemed to know. Her interactions with most of them after settling in so far had been forced, obviously uncomfortable, and in the end they'd only made eachother nervous. She'd retreated away into a corner after that, trying to look alive; and because she'd come to the library in the first place because it had once made her happy to read here, it seemed like a good idea to pick up a book.
When this new stranger wandered up to her, Eloise noticed, but didn't move; at his question she managed to look up and smile, holding up the cover for him to read.
"This is my favorite translation," said Ellie then. "It's like poetry."
Then she paused for a moment, thoughtfully, and added: "Hi."