He glances to the knife, knowing what it likely symbolizes, and wondering idly who it is for. It doesn't particularly matter for the inevitable conversation at hand, he supposes. What will they place in memory of him? He can think of at least a few appropriate items, all of them sad choices, and none of them any more likely to bring him back than the other memorials. This isn't being sent home, after all. This is ceasing to exist.

"Perhaps," he answers. "What time I have is certainly borrowed." He turns his face further from her, avoiding her eyes. "... at best."