Mira closed the door behind her with deliberate care.

  Not a sm. Not a click loud enough to carry.

  Just enough to say: this space is guarded.

  She turned around and nearly collided with her mother.

  Mom stood just outside the room, hand half-raised as if she’d been about to knock—or force the door open again. Her face was tight with worry, eyes red-rimmed, exhaustion etched deep into her expression. Yui hovered just behind her, smaller, arms wrapped around herself, eyes darting nervously between Mira and the door.

  Mom’s gaze snapped to the lock.

  It was no longer resisting.

  “…You opened it,” she said quietly.

  Mira didn’t deny it.

  She stepped fully into the hallway, pcing herself squarely between her family and Ethan’s bedroom door. Her posture was firm in a way it rarely was—shoulders squared, feet pnted, hands rexed but ready.

  “Yes,” Mira said. “I did.”

  Mom’s voice trembled. “Then why is it closed again?”

  Mira met her eyes without flinching. “Because he needs space.”

  Yui frowned. “But he didn’t answer us. And—” Her voice dropped. “We heard that noise. That wasn’t… that didn’t sound like him.”

  Mira felt the echo of that sound still ringing in her chest. The fear in it. The rawness.

  She swallowed.

  “He’s okay,” Mira said carefully. “I promise.”

  Mom took a step forward. Mira didn’t move—but she raised a hand gently, palm out.

  “Please,” Mira said. “Just—just wait.”

  Mom stared at her, disbelief and frustration warring with fear. “Mira, you don’t understand. He’s been locking himself in his room, refusing to answer, acting like he’s… disappearing. And now you open the door and won’t let me see him?”

  “I understand,” Mira said softly. “More than you think.”

  Yui looked between them, biting her lip. “Mira… did you see him?”

  Mira hesitated.

  She chose her words carefully.

  “Yes,” she said. “I saw him.”

  Mom exhaled sharply. “Then let me—”

  “No,” Mira said, firmer now. Not angry. Just solid. “Not yet.”

  That stopped her.

  Mom searched Mira’s face, looking for sarcasm, defiance, anything familiar. What she found instead was something steadier—and far more unsettling.

  Resolve.

  “He’s safe,” Mira repeated. “He’s not hurt. He’s not in danger. But if you go in there right now, you’ll make things worse.”

  Silence stretched.

  Yui’s voice came out small. “Is he… mad at us?”

  Mira’s expression softened immediately. She crouched slightly to meet Yui’s eye level.

  “No,” she said gently. “He’s not mad. He’s scared.”

  Yui’s eyes filled. “Of us?”

  Mira shook her head. “Of being seen when he’s not ready.”

  Mom pressed her lips together, struggling. “Mira… I’m his mother. I can’t just stand here while my child locks himself away and—”

  “And I’m his sister,” Mira said quietly. “And right now, he needs me to hold this line.”

  The words surprised even her—but once spoken, they felt true.

  Mom looked at the door again.

  Then back at Mira.

  “How long?” she asked.

  Mira didn’t answer immediately. She listened—to the house, to the quiet behind the door, to her own heartbeat. She imagined the room as she’d left it: the bed, the soft weight of fur, the way Ethan—no, Eri—had curled into herself at st, finally not bracing for the world to crash down on her.

  “Let him sleep,” Mira said finally. “Just for a little while.”

  Yui nodded quickly. “We can wait. Right, Mom?”

  Mom hesitated.

  Then—slowly—she nodded.

  “Fine,” she said, voice tight. “But I’m not going far.”

  Mira nodded. “That’s okay.”

  Mom turned reluctantly and walked down the hall, stopping just a few steps away, lingering within earshot. Yui followed her, casting one st worried gnce at Mira before padding after her.

  Mira remained where she was.

  Standing guard.

  Only when she was sure they were gone did she allow herself to breathe out.

  She leaned her forehead briefly against the closed door.

  “You’re okay,” she whispered, so softly no one else could hear. “I’ve got you.”

  Inside the room, the world had narrowed to warmth and softness.

  Eri slept.

  Not the restless, half-aware kind of sleep she’d been trapped in for so long—but the deep, heavy kind that came only after fear had finally burned itself out.

  Her body was curled into the center of the bed, ten tails wrapped around her like a living nest. They overpped and yered instinctively, forming a cocoon of thick, silver-white fur that shielded her from the outside world. Only the tips twitched now and then, responding to dreams too soft to disturb her rest.

  Her ears y rexed atop her head, no longer pinned ft in fear. They flicked once, faintly, as if reacting to a distant sound—but she didn’t wake.

  Her breathing was slow. Even. Peaceful.

  Her muscles weren’t tense. Her jaw wasn’t clenched. Her hands rested loosely against the fur at her chest, fingers sunk slightly into its warmth without gripping.

  She dreamed—not of running, or hiding, or being found out—but of quiet.

  Of a pce where she didn’t have to choose between being seen and being safe.

  The bed creaked softly as she shifted, instinctively curling tighter into her tails. One slid up around her shoulders, another tucked beneath her chin. The cocoon adjusted around her, responding to her needs without thought or effort.

  A faint sound escaped her throat.

  Not fear.

  Not pain.

  A soft, contented sigh.

  Her purr returned—not loud, not constant, just a gentle vibration that came and went with her breath. It filled the space around her, a low hum of comfort that made the room feel warmer, softer, kinder.

  If anyone had seen her like this, they might not have recognized her.

  Not as Ethan.

  Not as someone hiding.

  But as someone finally, truly resting.

  Outside the door, Mira stood watch.

  Inside, Eri slept—wrapped in herself, held by warmth, allowed, for once, to simply exist.

  And for now…

  That was enough.