The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of paper lanterns. Nyssa adjusted the microphone carefully, her fingers brushing the delicate brush she used to trace whispered patterns into sound. Outside, the wind whispered through the bamboo, carrying the faint scent of rain. “Just… relax,” Nyssa murmured, her voice soft, low, carrying a warmth that seemed to push the cold from the room. She lifted the brush and ran it across the microphone’s surface, the sound a faint, whispering tickle. Nyssa’s steady gaze met hers, grounding her. “I’m right here,” Nyssa said. “No one can touch you here. Only me. Only this space.”“You’re safe now,” Nyssa whispered, brushing a strand of hair from Daisy’s temple. “Everything you’ve survived… It brought you here. To me. And here… you can just be.”