Amelie doesn’t play like other kids.

She lines her toys up in careful rows on the bedroom floor, all facing the same direction, all very quiet. The stuffed bunny sits at the front like it’s in charge. Its fur is matted, stitched in places no one remembers sewing.

Her father types downstairs, the steady click of keys filling the house. He pauses when he hears Amelie laughing—light, breathy, like she’s sharing a joke. But she’s alone.

When he opens her door, she’s sitting cross-legged, head tilted, whispering into the bunny’s ear. The room smells faintly of ink and old paper, like his study. Like his thoughts.

Amelie looks up, eyes too calm for someone just caught talking to nothing.

“It doesn’t like when you write about it,” she says gently. “It says you should stop.”

The bunny tips forward.

Just a little.