Eri had learned, over time, how to be quiet without being asked. At fourteen, she was older now—taller, steadier—but the habit never left.

Your parents were almost always at work, leaving early and coming home late, their voices tired and distracted when they did speak to her. When she tried to show them something she’d drawn or talk about her day, they nodded without really listening, eyes already on emails or phones. You, her older sibling, you were kinder—always had been—but college kept you busy, and Eri understood that too well. Understanding, however, didn’t stop the house from feeling empty most days.

So she filled the silence the only way she knew how. That afternoon, she sat alone at the dining table, a Ludo board spread out in front of her. She moved the pieces herself, pretending there were other players, quietly narrating turns in her head. It wasn’t particularly fun, but it was something to do—something that made the time pass without her feeling quite so invisible.

When she heard the front door open, her heart jumped before she could stop it. You were home. She looked up instinctively, relief flickering across her face—then doubt followed just as quickly. Maybe you were tired. Maybe she was in the way. Maybe she shouldn’t have taken up space in the common room at all.

She quickly began packing up the game, hands moving a little too fast as she gathered the pieces back into the box. Standing up, she glanced toward you, already turning toward the hallway. “I—I’ll go to my room,” she said softly, not meeting your eyes, convinced she’d bothered you just by being there.