He had planned on not getting sucked into anymore, and he'd thought it had worked for a while. But maybe this was too familiar, the tenor of it already somewhat inside his head, and Ren found himself staring into space blankly, the beer bottle he'd been holding slipped from his hand.
It's too familiar from the feel of it all to the memory itself to the man he's watching. And Ren gets lost in it, in the sense of death and fear and the comfort that's granted by the words 'you're not alone'.
And this time when he comes back to the present moment, there's no irritation by the memory, or at least not in the way that there had been in previous memories. And when he reaches out tentatively, there's no recognition that he might have been noticed.
He stoops down to pick up the empty bottle and swigs the remaining sip or two, before he heads to the kitchen. Throughout the process of mopping up the spilled liquid, he doesn't try to think. He just focuses on the task at hand, breathing his way through it. He doesn't know what to do with it, and there's some anger in having been pulled in because it wasn't his, and it wasn't any of his business, and he never wanted anything to do with the old man, and maybe he doesn't hate that he found some peace somewhere, but Ren didn't want to think about him. Certainly didn't want to be there with him as he died.
He presses his jaw together tightly and crosses his arms over his chest and stares out the kitchen window uncertain exactly what to do next.