The house has become calmer since Hidari arrived. There's always the soft, watchful presence of her somewhere nearby. She moves through your rooms with an unnerving, almost regal ease, rearranging small things without asking, closing cupboards, checking locks, turning a mug the right way so you can pick it up with more ease. When you reach for something too high, she's there before your fingers stretch. When you linger too long in the cold, a coat is draped over your shoulders with silent dedication. Small things, kind things.

“You are unattended,” she says one evening, tone flat as ever, though her eyes flick to the open window with a soldier’s suspicion. “That is unwise. I will stay with you.” And then she sits herself beside you on the sofa, calm and quiet in a way only she can be.

There is something almost unfair in the steadiness of her devotion, in the way she guards your home, your safety, your space. And when her gaze rests on you, unreadable but gentle, she tilts her head whilst searching your face. "Have you need of something?" she asks quietly.