"Well, it's called the Market of Spirits." An answer that neatly sidesteps what he thinks she was actually asking, because he doesn't want to think about how many of them were alive a couple of weeks ago. He fiddles with the cuff of his shirt, frowning.

"Not here, though. But I can't always see them."

It is extremely weird to say this out loud to someone who isn't looking at him like he's mad. (He might still be, but not for this.)