"It's definitely big enough, at least." Still clutching the mug of coffee contemplatively, which is dwarfed in his hand, Luther considers the question. Pulls out the chair and settles in at the table with his plate (still instinctively taking one of the heads of the table, as ever, because some things didn't change).

The ballroom is a kind little gift, but something twists in his chest at the thought of it. Too many memories of too many hours and days circling this house, riding his bike until it wore a groove in the carpet, seeing the same walls and portraits and posters sliding by. Monotonous. Unchanging.

"I think," Luther says carefully, as he sets down the coffee and picks up knife and fork, and looks up at his mother, "that I'll take it outside after breakfast. You wanna come with? See how it runs."

Another little gift, an invitation. She should probably get out from these walls, too, eventually.