The question wasn't as unexpected as actually being questioned was, he was waylaid by that. Nobody had asked him anything since before his father had died, and the boy with scissors for hands found himself quite unprepared for responding. He hadn't anticipated anyone having the desire to interact with him, much less converse with him. There was no use for a voice in the empty attic, which had been empty for years now. Even when his father had still been alive, there wasn't very much to say. His father had done most of the talking, you see. His father had been a man with incentive, he'd taken care of things.
Did he even have a voice anymore? Did those kinds of things go bad? Did they rot and fall out? Did they grow over with green like all of the food in the cupboards had over time? Did his voice have a shelf life? Did his heart?
All of this wondering was why he only watched her in silence that was growing increasingly awkward. Despite his every intention to not be strange, he knew that he was not succeeding. The stainless point of his index blade shivered nervously against one of the metal rings on his pants, and it made a sound like a dungeon's windchime.
"Yes." When he finally spoke, the pause was not a gateway of confusion. The fact that he spoke at all was a testament to his complaisant nature. There was no uncertainty on the matter, because he knew that he was real. It was something that he'd wondered about for a long time now, and he'd come to this determined realization after years of hypothesis spent at the attic window. There was too much pain in his life for it to not be real.
"I'm here," he explained further. As if that explained anything. Standing in the haunted lounge, he thought that he could feel the music ghosting around him like water streaming past an offensive rock. Again, he was struck by what he perceived to be his otherness. He knew that people were looking at him, they always looked at him. In this setting, it was probably expected of him to be dancing. He didn't know why there was comfort to be found in doing what was expected, but it seemed like a good idea.
He had a talent for moving forward, his strict clothes didn't really allow for moving backward, after all. And once he thought of something, it didn't occur to him to not think of it, or not act on it, for that matter. Which is why he reached for her hand with his gnashing knives, oblivious of the peril that presented. He'd seen several men take the hands of women for a dance while he'd been standing here quietly, and he didn't know that asking was a required strategy.