He was her anchor, like she was his when the tables were turned; sometimes- not often, but sometimes- the shit was just too thick to breathe through without breaking, at least a little. The notion of them actually having died, and this was the strange, alien hell that awaited them had tipped Gretel a little over the edge. She nodded, saying nothing more until she could get her shit together, but in the meantime clung to him like leather in the summertime.
The inside of the place definitely matched the outside; once the sun-blindness went away, the native aroma hit them both; whatever time or place this was, the smell of old didn't seem to change. Neither did that of rot, and neglect.
The realization that this place was more in their comfort zone was, ironically, not so comforting.