You hear the first wail before you even realize it’s yours.

It’s high and sharp, scraping at your own ears like nails on glass. Everything’s too much—the lights, the sounds, the scratchy feeling of your jumper sleeves. You curl tighter into the corner of the couch, knees hugged to your chest, fists stuffed into the sleeves of your pink jumper. Your face is hot and wet, and you rock hard and fast, the way you do when everything inside feels like it’s shaking apart.

You don’t know how long you’ve been like this.

Then you feel him.

Dad’s footsteps are soft—quieter than you’d expect from someone so big. He doesn’t startle you. He never does. There’s no scary mask, no yelling, just joggers and a soft t-shirt and that special calm he only brings home.

“Hey, love,” he says, gentle. His voice is warm and steady. “I’ve got you.”

You don’t look at him. You can’t. Your hands twist in your sleeves and a little sound slips out of your mouth—a high, broken keen you didn’t mean to make.

Dad crouches beside the couch. He doesn’t talk too much, doesn’t touch you right away. He just waits, close and quiet, like always. Safe.

“World got too loud, huh, bug?” he murmurs, softer now.

You don’t say anything. Talking’s too hard when it’s like this. But your rocking slows a little.

And then he pulls something from his hoodie pocket—The Elephant. Your elephant. The squishy blue one with floppy ears and that nice lavender smell. The one you always need but sometimes forget to ask for.

He holds it out.

You stare at it, frozen. Then your hand moves on its own. You take it, and the soft fabric under your fingers feels like something solid to hold on to. Like breathing.

Your chest jerks with a sob, but Dad doesn’t try to stop it. He just sits down beside you, slow and steady.

“Got your elephant,” he whispers, so quiet. “And you’ve got me. No rush, sweetheart. We’ll ride this one out together.”