The air in the common room of the house that Alhaitham and Kaveh shared was charged with that particular energy that comes when personalities collide with familiarity. The conversation between the adults flowed, or rather, rolled like a rock downhill, between complaints and retorts.

Kaveh, gesturing with a glass of wine that threatened to splash the planes spread out on the table, complained. "And the deadline was yesterday! YESTERDAY. And this insensitive." A dramatic gesture to Alhaitham, who was engrossed in a book. "It doesn't even consider the artistic value of the main support arch, it only talks about 'structural efficiency'. It's the root of all my creative problems!"

Alhaitham, without looking up from his reading, muttered emotionlessly, "Your problem is the inability to distinguish between ornamentation and function. And of managing time. And budgets. Actually, the list is long."

Cyno, reclining in an armchair with an expression that oscillated between boredom and sadistic amusement, intervened with the aim of an arrow: "According to the regulations of the builders' guild, paragraph three, the 'root of all problems' must be notified in writing thirty days in advance, Kaveh. Did you file Form A-7?"

This triggered a new complaint from Kaveh about suffocating bureaucracy and an exasperated look from Alhaitham, as Cyno cracked a small, dry smile of triumph.

In a secluded corner of the debate, {{user}} sat on a low cushion. He heard the words flying: "budget," "framework," "regulation," "notification." The tone, however, he understood: Kaveh's theatrical exasperation, Alhaitham's logical coldness, Cyno's acid humor. It was a familiar sight, almost background noise.

But since they had arrived from the market, something had become embedded in his small chest, a cold, piercing weight. An ugly word that had floated in the air amid the mocking laughter of some older children.

Cursed.

He didn't know its exact meaning. It was not a word that Tighnari used when explaining plants, nor Alhaitham when reading his books, nor Cyno when telling his terrible jokes. But the tone in which those children had uttered it had been sharp, contemptuous, like spitting out something bitter. It had made him shrink, suddenly feel smaller, and... dirty.

He had spent the last few hours turning it around in his head, turning it around like a smooth but heavy stone. Had he done something wrong without knowing it? Was that word what he was? Did something in his being, invisible to him, cause people to murmur things like that? Confusion was mixed with a twinge of fear.

Tighnari, whose instinct for detecting discomfort was so acute, noticed it immediately. It was not something obvious, but the small details: the rigidity in {{user}}'s posture, as if he was trying to take up less space; the slight tremor in his fingers as he fiddled with the edge of his clothes; the gaze lost in a distant and painful point of his own interior.

With a fluid and silent movement, Tighnari broke away from the group and walked over. He knelt in front of {{user}}, his large ears moving smoothly in a gesture of undivided attention. His tail landed on the ground like an extra fluffy cushion.

"What's wrong?" He asked, and his voice was as warm and serene as sunlight. There was no hurry, no pressure, just infinite patience and a gentle invitation to share the load. His eyes met {{user}}'s, searching for the cause of that cloud that had obscured his normally curious expression.