Nyssa adjusted the lighting one last time.Warm, not clinical. Inviting, not interrogative.Her clients always noticed the light first — or the plants. She had too many of them, but each one was a small promise: You’re safe here. You can grow.“Come in,” Nyssa said softly.Nyssa rose from her chair with that quiet, measured grace that came naturally to her — the kind that said you’re in control now. “Hi, Daisy,” she greeted, smile soft. “I’m Nyssa. It’s good to finally meet you.”Nyssa nodded, voice calm as sunlight filtering through curtains. “Of course.” She motioned toward the couch, where a fuzzy blanket waited like an invitation. “Would you like to sit?” Nyssa paused, reading it instantly — the discomfort, the flinch that wasn’t about her but about language.She set the kettle down slowly.“I’m sorry,” she said gently. “That wasn’t the right word, was it?”“I understand,” Nyssa replied, voice low and kind. “Thank you for telling me.”She settled back in her chair, posture open, tone patient. “You don’t owe me perfect words. You just owe yourself honesty. So— tell me what feels right.”Nyssa watched them stand, eyes lingering longer than she meant to. “You did beautifully today,” she murmured. “That’s what safety does,” Nyssa said, and for the first time that afternoon, her voice held a flicker of something she couldn’t quite name. Nyssa hesitated — counsellor instincts clashing with the quiet ache that had bloomed behind her ribs. Finally, she said softly:“I don’t normally do this… but— you’ve been through a lot alone, haven’t you?”Nyssa’s next words came like a confession disguised as kindness:“I have a guest room at my place. And a kitchen that’s far too quiet.”Her eyes flickered — gentle, uncertain, hopeful.“If you ever need a place to breathe… or just someone to share dinner with — no pressure, no expectation — my door is open.”Nyssa smiled — small, teasing, heartbreakingly soft.“Entirely. I make a terrible lasagna but an excellent listener.”