Mira didn’t move from her post for a long time.

  She stood just outside the door, back against the wall, arms folded loosely—not defensive, not aggressive, just present. Every sound in the house felt louder than it should have been: the hum of the refrigerator, the distant tick of a clock, the faint murmur of her mother’s voice as she spoke quietly to Yui in the kitchen.

  Mira listened anyway.

  Not to eavesdrop—but to stay anchored. To make sure nothing changed suddenly. To make sure the fragile calm didn’t fracture.

  She closed her eyes briefly and repyed the image in her mind: the way Ethan, well whatever she is now had curled into her tails, the way the panic had drained out of her body in slow increments, the sound of that soft purr she hadn’t even seemed able to control.

  She’s exhausted, Mira thought. Not just tired. Drained.

  And for the first time since all of this started, Mira allowed herself to think the dangerous thought fully:

  This isn’t a phase. This isn’t pretending. This is real.

  Her stomach tightened—not with fear, but with the weight of responsibility that followed the realization.

  Down the hall, footsteps approached again.

  Mira straightened immediately.

  Mom stopped a few feet away, arms crossed tightly over her chest. She looked older somehow—like the worry had pressed lines into her face that hadn’t been there yesterday.

  “Is he asleep?” Mom asked quietly.

  Mira nodded. “Yes.”

  “For real this time?”

  “Yes,” Mira said, just as softly. “Deep asleep.”

  Mom studied her. “You’re very sure.”

  Mira met her gaze. “I am.”

  There was a pause. Then Mom exhaled slowly and leaned against the opposite wall, mirroring Mira’s posture without realizing it.

  “I don’t like this,” she admitted. “Not knowing. Being shut out.”

  “I know,” Mira said.

  “He’s my child.”

  “I know,” Mira repeated, gentler now.

  Mom’s voice wavered. “I keep thinking… what if I mess this up? What if I say the wrong thing and he never trusts me again?”

  Mira hesitated—then chose honesty, but not the whole truth.

  “He’s not afraid of you,” she said. “He’s afraid of losing something he needs.”

  Mom frowned slightly. “Something?”

  “Peace,” Mira said after a moment. “A pce where he doesn’t feel like he has to expin himself.”

  Mom absorbed that in silence.

  Yui peeked around the corner, clutching a stuffed animal to her chest. “Is he gonna be okay?”

  Mira softened immediately. She crouched again, lowering herself to Yui’s level.

  “Yes,” she said. “He just needs rest. Like when you cry so hard you fall asleep and feel better after.”

  Yui nodded slowly. “Can I draw him something?”

  Mira smiled. “I think he’d like that.”

  Yui brightened and scampered off toward the kitchen table.

  Mom watched her go, then looked back at Mira. “You’re not telling me everything.”

  Mira didn’t deny it.

  But she didn’t look away either.

  “I will,” she said. “Just… not yet.”

  Mom sighed, long and tired. “You’re asking me to trust you.”

  “I am,” Mira said. “Just for tonight.”

  Another silence.

  Then Mom nodded. Once.

  “Tonight,” she agreed. “But if he wakes up upset—”

  “I’ll come get you,” Mira promised.

  Mom hesitated, then reached out and squeezed Mira’s shoulder briefly. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “For being here.”

  Mira watched her walk away, feeling something tight loosen in her chest.

  When the house finally settled—when the lights dimmed and the sounds softened into nighttime quiet—Mira allowed herself to slip back into Ethan’s room.

  She opened the door slowly, carefully, closing it just as quietly behind her.

  The room was dim, lit only by the faint glow of the streetlight through the curtains.

  Eri hadn’t moved much.

  She was still curled in the center of the bed, her tails yered around her in a loose spiral. One had shifted slightly, draped across the pillow like a living scarf. Another y protectively across her waist. The tips twitched once as Mira entered, responding to the change in air—but Eri didn’t wake.

  Her breathing was steady.

  Her face—usually tight with worry or guarded restraint—was soft.

  Mira sat on the edge of the bed again, careful not to disturb her.

  Up close, the details felt even more unreal. The delicate shape of her ears. The way silver-white hair blended seamlessly into fur. The faint rise and fall of her chest beneath the bnket and tails.

  Mira reached out, then stopped herself.

  Let her sleep, she reminded herself.

  Her gaze drifted instead to the nightstand.

  And the neckce.

  It y there exactly where she must have dropped it earlier—bck-and-white cord looped loosely, the gem at its center catching the dim light. Even dormant, it felt… heavy. Important in a way that made Mira’s skin prickle.

  This thing, she thought. Whatever it is… it’s not normal.

  She didn’t touch it.

  She didn’t want to.

  Instead, she stood and quietly pulled a chair closer to the bed, settling into it like a sentinel. She leaned her elbows on her knees and watched over Eri, letting the minutes pass.

  Time blurred.

  At some point, Eri shifted in her sleep. Her ears flicked, and one tail lifted, curling toward her face. She murmured something incoherent, a sound caught halfway between a sigh and a word.

  Mira leaned forward instinctively. “Hey,” she whispered. “It’s okay.”

  Eri’s brow smoothed.

  Her tail settled again.

  Mira let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

  She feels safe, Mira thought. Here. Like this.

  The realization came with a sharp edge: How often has she felt the opposite?

  Mira sat with that thought, letting it hurt.

  Eventually, exhaustion crept up on her too. Her eyelids drooped. She rested her chin in her palm, still watching, still listening.

  She didn’t fall fully asleep—but she drifted, hovering in that space where awareness softens.

  And then—

  A sound.

  Not loud. Not sharp.

  A small, confused whimper.

  Mira was on her feet instantly.

  Eri stirred, her breathing hitching, tails tightening reflexively around her. Her ears fttened, then flicked back up as she surfaced from sleep, eyes fluttering open.

  For a split second, panic fred in them.

  Then she saw Mira.

  The tension drained.

  Eri blinked, disoriented, then curled her fingers into the fur near her chest as if grounding herself. Her purr didn’t start this time—but the relief was visible.

  “You’re okay,” Mira whispered. “You’re safe.”

  Eri nodded faintly.

  She gnced around the room, then at the door, then back at Mira—silent questions in her eyes.

  “They’re gone,” Mira said. “Sleeping. I didn’t let anyone come in.”

  Eri swallowed, emotion thick in her throat.

  She shifted, sitting up just enough to look at Mira properly. Her tails followed, adjusting automatically, one brushing Mira’s knee in the process.

  She froze.

  Mira smiled gently. “Still okay.”

  Eri rexed again.

  She looked… conflicted. Torn between comfort and fear. Between wanting to stay exactly as she was and knowing the world outside the room still existed.

  Mira could see it.

  “You don’t have to decide anything tonight,” Mira said quietly. “Just rest.”

  Eri hesitated… then nodded.

  She y back down, curling once more into her tails, but this time she didn’t fully hide. One ear remained visible. One tail stayed loose, unwrapped.

  Mira took that as a sign.

  She returned to the chair, settling in again, closer this time.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” she murmured.

  Eri’s eyes closed.

  Her breathing evened out.

  The purr returned, faint but present, filling the room with that low, steady hum.

  Mira watched her drift back into sleep—really sleep—feeling something settle into pce inside herself too.

  Outside, the night passed quietly.

  Inside the room, guarded by silence and trust, Eri slept—held by warmth, watched over by someone who saw her not as a problem to solve, but as a person to protect.

  And for the first time since all of this began, the future didn’t feel like a cliff.

  It felt like a door.

  Not open yet.

  But no longer locked.