When the man's voice had first begun to speak out in reply, she breathed in. It was an empty and transparent breath that marked a swell of hope. It didn't even sound like his voice, and any illusion was quick to be cleared when the name itself accompanied that difference. But she had hoped all the same. She would readily admit that she was just a little bit disappointed when she shouldn't have been. She could have very well never heard or met anyone there and be left to brood and be still on her own. At least, with the presence, she was forced to remember her own composure.
Meeting, greeting, smiling for new people. This wasn't just a private room, locked away from the world, or a hospital ward where she would have all the excuses she needed to turn visitors away. Though what it was, or if it were really Silent Hill, was yet to be seen.
"I'm fine." Mary answered readily enough. It was a practiced and quick answer that needed little thought before being given as it was. "Did you hear me..? I was just startled earlier. I'm sorry if I scared you." She would be more sorry if she had scared him with the sight of her illness, but so far just talking to him as she was seemed to be working rather well.
"Oh... I'm Mary." She had never remembered introducing herself to anyone backwards, and it was a somewhat awkward experience. She only hoped that he didn't think she was being rude. In an attempt to help the common courtesy along, she turned back toward him slightly, almost timidly, with her eyes straining to glance through the dirty blond strands that escaped the bun and brushed against her cheek. From what she caught, he was just a man. And he wasn't James. She didn't know any better to expect anything else, yet.
"Do you, by any chance, know where my husband might be?" She ventured to ask, somewhat nervously, nothing else really weighing on her mind. Save for the fact that she was still afraid to show her face just yet. "We're supposed to be together... His name is James. Short, light brown hair, old, dark green jacket. About your height, I think.."
Just describing him made her nostalgic. She wrung her hands, frowning. There were fluctuations in her mood back then where she sometimes wanted to see him more than anything; felt like she would die if she didn't. And other times when she didn't want to see him or anyone else ever again. The impulse was controllable, tolerable, now. A whisper of her temper and bipolar tantrums and tendencies. Still, it would have been nice, to see him again.