Probably nicer. [ She's lost the place, clearly, so he doesn't make any guesses of his own about family or animals, at least verbally. Butter is dropped into the warming pan, pushed across its surface as it melts.

It takes him a moment, but he has just enough sense to decide this is a poor time to go on about what a work in progress Gotham is. He continues: ]

Small perks, though. There are a couple of nice libraries, old in the good way. Estate sales. Museums, when I found the time. [ He imagines the city empty, packed with shuffling dead. They'd have no regard for art, or naval history, or dinosaur bones. Worthless under those circumstances even to the living, he reasons, and wonders where they've ended up in her world. Four eggs are cracked into the pan, one after another. ] Sometimes the noise is good. Not always, but I'm sure quiet and crickets would be jarring.

What did you want to be, before things changed?