Sixsmith is a man of science and whilst he has always loved the imagination and the wonderful, creative minds of others it's impossible- it's just impossible for this to have happened.
"I was old-" he whispers, finding himself leaning into her embrace for the warmth if nothing else -though he very much enjoys the comfort she offers as well- "I was killed. How- how am I young? How am I this? How am I not dead?" Sixsmith doesn't really expect her to have the answers.
"I can't find-" he starts, but then there's no point in bringing that up again. They're not here. He swallows down another sob, feeling so hollow, so empty he wonders why that grief isn't enough to be counted as his penance. Why can't he just die?