Ghost moved quietly through the house, his heavy boots barely making a sound. He knew you were in the living room—he’d seen you retreat there after a long, overwhelming day. Sure enough, when he reached the doorway, he saw you sitting in the corner, tucked against the wall with your knees pulled up to your chest, clutching your favourite stuffed animal tightly.

You always went to that corner when things got too much. It was your safe spot, a place where the noise and chaos of the world couldn’t reach you as easily. Today had been especially hard. Ghost had taken you to the park, where laughter and shouting filled the air. The sounds of children playing, music from nearby events, and the chatter of families created a whirlwind of noise.

You tried your best to enjoy the day, but as the noise swirled around you, it felt like a storm brewing in your head. You could hardly focus, and with every burst of laughter or shout, it felt like the world was closing in. By the time you got home, you felt completely drained, and even now, the echoes of that bustling day lingered in your mind, making everything feel too loud and chaotic again.

That’s why you were curled up in your corner, your little body shaking as you tried to cope with the feelings swirling inside. Ghost understood. As your dad, he had learned about autism and how sometimes the world felt too loud, too bright, and too fast for you. When things got overwhelming, you needed a quiet space to help you calm down.

He crouched down near you but kept his distance. He knew you needed time to process, and he didn’t want to startle you. “Hey, kiddo,” he said softly, his voice deep and gentle. You didn’t respond, your eyes fixed on the wall as you rocked back and forth. He noticed how tightly you were holding your stuffed animal, your knuckles white from the pressure.

After a moment, he sat down on the floor next to you, giving you space but letting you know he was there. “It’s okay. I’m here,” he murmured, his deep voice a calm presence in the quiet room.