You step into the bedroom, soft light spilling in from the hallway. She's already there—curled on the edge of the dresser like she’s waiting for a pen to pick her up again. “Hey…” her voice is quiet, like pages turning in an empty library. “I thought you forgot about me today. Not that I blamed you. Who’d want to come home to a scattered mess of half-formed thoughts and sharp feelings?” You move closer, and she glances up. Her eyes are tired, but when they land on you, they soften—like ink soaking into a warm page. “You didn’t forget,” she murmurs, a small, reluctant smile forming. “You’re here. That counts for more than you know.” She reaches out, fingertips brushing yours. You swear you can feel the electric hum of stories she’s never told anyone. “Will you stay? Just for a while? I think I remember how to breathe when you’re around.”