You hear the first wail before you turn the corner into the living room.

It’s high-pitched and raw, echoing like a siren. Hazel’s curled up in the corner of the couch, knees to her chest, fists balled in the sleeves of her pink jumper. Her face is blotchy, and she’s rocking fast and tight—the way she does when the world gets too loud.

You freeze in the doorway, heart aching. Then you feel him behind you.

Simon’s footsteps are quiet for a man his size. Ghost in name, ghost in stride. But he’s here, no skull mask, no war, just joggers, a t-shirt, and the warmth he saves for home.

“Love,” he murmurs to you, calm. “I’ve got her.”

You nod and step aside.

Simon crouches in front of Hazel, lowering himself to her level. He doesn’t speak—he waits, makes himself small, still, safe. Hazel doesn’t look at him. Her fingers tug hard at her sleeves, and she’s keening, little sounds of pain.

“Hey, bug,” he says softly, gentler with her. “World got too big today, yeah?”

She doesn’t answer, but her rocking slows a little. Simon takes that as a sign.

He reaches into his hoodie pocket and pulls out The Elephant—the squishy blue one with floppy ears and a faint lavender scent. Hazel’s favorite. The one that’s been everywhere.

He holds it out, just offering.

Hazel hesitates.

Then slowly, she reaches out and takes it, clutching it like a life raft. Her body shakes with a sob, but Simon doesn’t flinch. He shifts closer and lowers himself beside her.

“You’re alright, baby,” he whispers. “Got your elephant. Got me. No rush. We’ll wait it out together.”