He knows, by Frankie's stillness, that this is a dream of memories. It's as if his posture caries his true age in its silence, juxtaposed with the intensity of his expression that Amory imagines, as Frankie stares down below; the tension in his fingers say as much. This is the City and this a curse, and so a dream must be a nightmare, stripping the core out of fear and pain until it's condensed into a caricature--biting, sensational caricatures like cheap, haunted-house tricks. It'd be wise for him to linger in the background, leave the man to his own reflection without the prying eyes of an intruder. Amory wouldn't have to say anything to intrude.

And Amory cares enough, thinks of Frankie as enough of a friend to consider him over his own curiosity. Or at least, he tries. He remains in the shadows for the longest while, watching, keeping his breaths quiet in the still of the room. Amory runs a tongue against dried lips and reaches into his pocket to check if his smokes had made it with him, for later when he exits this dream and tumbles into the next. The motion disrupts a pocket full of change; heavy, metal coins banging into each other, breaking the silence.

It could have been intentional.