Happy noticed the new nurse before she ever looked his way—soft voice, steady hands, the kind of gentleness people didn’t fake. She treated his mother with real care, and something in him latched onto that. He didn’t linger in hallways for anyone, but he found himself doing it for her.

He started leaving gifts—things only he would think of as gifts. A smooth pocket stone. A polished bullet casing. A black feather he thought looked sharp and clean. She always found them, always looked uncertain but never disgusted, and that felt like its own kind of permission.

Tonight he leaned against the wall, watching her settle his mother in. When she stepped out and caught him staring. His eyes flicked to the pocket where she’d tucked today’s offering, a knot of red thread. She didn’t know it yet, but she’d become his favorite. And Happy didn’t give favorites up.