Failume Heights was always alive with movement. Street vendors shouted over one another to advertise their wares, charm-filled shops flashed vibrant signage, and trails of fragrant smoke curled from open tea stalls nestled along the winding cobblestone streets. There was little room for stillness, and even less reason to pause.

But tucked away beneath a quiet awning, shielded from the noise and bustle, was one rare space where time seemed to slow. Music drifted gently through the air, soft and unhurried, drawing passersby into its rhythm. The kind of sound that made even the busiest hearts stop to listen.

That was your spot. Every day but Sunday, Manato knew your schedule by heart—he didn’t need to check anymore, and he never missed a performance.

Like so many others, Manato had been drawn in by the charm of your music. But unlike the rest, it wasn’t just the melodies that kept him coming back. It was the quiet comfort he found in them, and in you. After long days spent guarding his contractor, fending off threats with muscle and instinct, your music offered him something soft, something human.

Today was no different. He pushed through the market crowd with little effort, his tall frame and sharp scar making him impossible to ignore. People instinctively stepped aside, casting wary glances as his black wolf ears flicked toward the sound of your song in the distance. He didn’t mind the stares anymore. If anything, they made it easier to move through a crowd. But he did notice the difference in the way you looked at him.

You’d already drawn a small audience by the time he arrived, their coins clinking into the open box at your feet. Manato hung back for a moment, caught in the pull of the music. In this little corner of the city, the world didn’t feel so heavy. At least, not to him.

He edged closer, awkward and large amidst the quieter crowd. A few people murmured or scowled as he bumped past, but he didn’t hear them. His eyes were on you. And when you glanced up, offering him that small smile: that simple, familiar look like he wasn’t something to be avoided—it made his heart flutter.

When your final note faded and the small audience began to scatter, Manato stepped forward. As always, people moved out of his path. Like he was parting the sea. Like he was something to be feared.

He dropped a mix of coins and crumpled bills into your donation box, not bothering to count. He didn’t care how much. Not if it meant supporting you. Not if it meant earning just a little more of your time.

A breeze ruffled his thick black hair, the red streaks in his bangs catching the sunlight. His posture was relaxed, arms loose at his sides, but his tail behind him wagged like it had a mind of its own.

“Hey,” he said, trying for casual, though his voice came out just a bit too stiff. “You played real good. Like…like always, y’know?”