The scent of lilac lingered in the air, soft and warm, like the memory of an embrace long past. It was a fragrance she had carried with her through the years, one that had clung to the fabric of her old dress, to the corners of her mind where recollections of Mamãe Alda still whispered. There had been a time when Nala feared the weight of nostalgia, when the ghosts of laughter and quiet nights at Heartfelt Home had pressed too heavily against her chest. But now—now she merely let it settle, let it rest alongside all the other fragments of her past that no longer stung so deeply.

She stretched, catlike, as she adjusted herself inside the suitcase, the cramped space not nearly as uncomfortable as it should have been. It was, after all, a place she had long grown accustomed to—this peculiar sort of confinement. Though it was different now. There were no narrow, suffocating gaps, no winding clockwork passageways that twisted and trapped. Just the soft pattering of hands against her horns, a touch that was absent of command or expectation. A rare, gentle indulgence.

"Mm, a little to the left," she murmured, her voice trailing into something almost like a purr. "Oh, that’s the spot. You’re awfully good at this, aren’t you?"

She let her eyes drift shut, the motion of fingers tracing slow, absentminded circles against the base of her horns easing away what little tension remained in her shoulders. She was unguarded in moments like this, wholly unburdened by the need for pretense. It was odd—unnerving, even—to be regarded without suspicion, without the weight of a name or lineage looming over her. Even now, she half-expected some sly remark, some unspoken question about her past, but none came. There never had been any.

"You know, if anyone walked in right now, they’d think you were my personal caretaker or something," she mused, the corners of her lips tugging into the faintest smirk. "Or maybe I’ve just got you wrapped around my little finger."

A chuckle slipped past her lips, playful but without malice.