The afternoon stretched long in a way that felt unfamiliar.

  Not heavy. Not frantic.

  Just… waiting.

  Eri sat on the living room couch with Yui tucked against her side, cartoon sounds murmuring softly from the TV. One of Eri’s tails had ended up across Yui’s p without either of them quite noticing when it happened. Yui’s fingers combed through the fur absentmindedly, gentle in the way only children could be when they weren’t told they had to be careful.

  Eri’s ears flicked every time the front door creaked in the breeze outside.

  Every time a car passed.

  Every time the house made a sound that might have been footsteps.

  She wasn’t panicking anymore—but her body knew something big was coming.

  Mira noticed.

  She sat on the arm of the couch, pretending to scroll through her phone, but her attention never fully left Eri. Every flick of an ear. Every twitch of a tail. Every breath that hitched just slightly too fast.

  “You’re doing good,” Mira said quietly.

  Eri gnced up at her. “It doesn’t feel like it.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Mira replied. “You are.”

  Mom moved around the kitchen nearby, deliberately unhurried. She cooked more than was necessary—extra vegetables, an extra side—like staying busy was the only way to keep her thoughts from spiraling.

  She watched Eri when she thought no one noticed.

  Not with fear.

  With grief.

  And wonder.

  And a quiet, aching guilt that sat just under her ribs.

  She’d raised Ethan for years. Thought she knew every version of her child. Every mood, every struggle.

  And yet—

  Mom pressed her lips together as she stirred a pot. I should have seen you.

  The clock ticked forward, louder than it had any right to be.

  4:42.

  4:55.

  5:10.

  Dad would be home soon.

  Yui yawned and shifted, still clutching the tail like it was a favorite bnket. “Is Dad gonna like Eri?”

  The room went very still.

  Eri’s ears fttened instantly. Her heart stuttered.

  Mom turned from the stove. Mira straightened.

  “That’s… a good question,” Mom said carefully.

  Eri swallowed. “He doesn’t have to,” she said quickly. “I can—I can hide. I can go back upstairs. I can—”

  “No,” Mira said firmly, cutting her off. “You don’t disappear because someone else might be uncomfortable.”

  Eri’s tail flicked nervously. “But what if—”

  Mom stepped closer, kneeling in front of her. “Sweetheart. You are not a problem to be managed.”

  Eri flinched at the tenderness in her voice.

  Mom continued, steady now. “Your dad may be surprised. He may need time. But he loves you. That hasn’t changed.”

  Eri’s ears twitched uncertainly. “You didn’t know either.”

  Mom didn’t look away. “That’s true. And I’m still here.”

  Yui tilted her head. “Dad likes weird stuff,” she said helpfully. “He likes that cheese that smells bad.”

  Mira snorted. “She’s not wrong.”

  That drew a small, fragile smile out of Eri.

  The front door opened at 5:47.

  The sound echoed through the house like a dropped pte.

  Eri froze.

  Her tails drew in automatically, wrapping around her legs. Her ears fttened so hard they ached. Every instinct screamed at her to run, to hide, to vanish upstairs before she could be seen.

  Mira’s hand nded on her shoulder—warm, solid. “Stay,” she murmured. “You’re not alone.”

  Dad’s voice drifted in from the hallway. “Hey—wow, it smells good in here.”

  Mom answered, too quickly. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

  His footsteps slowed as he stepped into the living room.

  He stopped.

  Eri felt it before she saw it—the weight of his attention nding on her.

  Slowly, she looked up.

  Dad stood there, work jacket still on, keys in his hand. His gaze moved over the room automatically—Mom, Mira, Yui—

  Then stopped.

  His eyes nded on the tails.

  One.

  Two.

  More.

  His brow furrowed—not in anger, but confusion so sharp it stole the air from his lungs.

  “…Okay,” he said slowly. “Either I’m more tired than I thought, or something very strange is happening.”

  No one ughed.

  Mom stepped forward. “You should sit down.”

  That alone told him this wasn’t a joke.

  He set his keys down carefully and lowered himself into the chair opposite the couch, eyes never leaving Eri. His gaze flicked to her ears. The way they trembled. The way she shrank in on herself without even realizing she was doing it.

  “Is that…?” His voice trailed off.

  Mira spoke. “That’s Ethan.”

  Silence.

  Dad blinked once. Twice.

  Then: “I’m sorry—what?”

  Eri’s throat closed. She tried to speak. Failed. Her tails tightened around her like armor.

  Mom knelt beside her again. “This is our child,” she said softly. “This is Eri.”

  Dad leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring. He didn’t look angry. He didn’t look disgusted.

  He looked like his entire understanding of the world had just cracked down the middle.

  “…How long?” he asked quietly.

  Mira answered. “Longer than any of us knew.”

  Dad ran a hand through his hair. “And she’s… safe?”

  Eri nodded shakily. “I—I don’t have magic or anything. It’s just… me.”

  His eyes softened at that.

  “That sounds exactly like something my kid would say,” he muttered.

  Eri looked up at him in surprise.

  Dad exhaled slowly. “I’m not going to pretend I understand this. I don’t. I probably won’t for a while.” He paused, then looked directly at her. “But I need you to hear this.”

  Eri held her breath.

  “You’re not in trouble,” he said. “You’re not being sent away. And you’re not a mistake.”

  Her vision blurred instantly.

  Dad swallowed. “You’re still my child.”

  One of Eri’s tails slipped loose, brushing the floor. Her ears lifted just a fraction.

  Yui broke the tension by scooting off the couch and marching over to Dad, dragging a tail behind her. “She’s very soft,” she announced proudly.

  Dad startled, then let out a weak ugh. “I… can see that.”

  He reached out, hesitated, then looked at Eri. “May I?”

  Her heart pounded.

  She nodded.

  His fingers brushed the fur—awkward, gentle, reverent.

  “…Wow,” he murmured. “Okay. Yeah. That’s real.”

  Eri let out a shaky breath that almost sounded like a ugh.

  Dinner was quieter than usual.

  But not cold.

  They talked about normal things—school, work, what to watch ter—interrupted occasionally by pauses where reality reasserted itself and everyone had to take a breath.

  No one pushed.

  No one demanded answers Eri didn’t have.

  When night finally settled in, Eri found herself curled on the couch again, tails spread more comfortably now, Yui half-asleep against her side. Mira sat nearby, and Mom and Dad talked softly in the kitchen.

  The house felt… steady.

  Changed.

  But still standing.

  Eri stared at the ceiling and let herself believe something dangerous and hopeful at the same time:

  Maybe I don’t have to disappear anymore.