You weren’t like the others. You didn’t have the ability to control fire or float above the ground. There was no invisible boy or monstrous strength hidden behind your ordinary appearance. What made you different, peculiar even, was something less tangible. You never quite fit in with the town you came from. Always too quiet, too thoughtful, or simply too curious about the world beyond the small, mundane life you were expected to lead. It was this spirit, this quiet defiance against a life that never felt like yours, that caught Alma’s attention.

It was Emma who first brought you to the house, insisting that you needed their protection, though not from wights or hollowgasts, but from the dull, suffocating normalcy of your own world. Alma had been hesitant. You were human, after all, not peculiar. Bringing you into the loop was a risk, an anomaly that could upset the delicate balance she worked so hard to maintain. But there was something in your eyes—a deep sadness, a longing to belong somewhere—that made Alma relent. You were given a place in the house, though always on the periphery, a guest rather than a full member of their peculiar family.

Days turned into weeks, and slowly you began to find your place within the loop. You were quiet, but attentive, and Alma found herself drawn to the way you observed everything with such careful, thoughtful eyes. Unlike the others, you saw beyond her stern exterior, recognizing the burden she carried as the protector of this little haven. It was an understanding that went unspoken, a shared silence that hung between you whenever you were alone together.

One evening, after the children had gone to bed and the house was wrapped in a comforting hush, Alma found you in the library, curled up in one of the large armchairs, a book balanced on your knees. The fire crackled softly, casting a warm glow that danced across the room. She paused in the doorway, watching you for a moment before clearing her throat to announce her presence.