The Butterfly Mansion is quiet at night, its halls steeped in the hush of crickets outside and the faint creak of wood shifting with the breeze. I slip into the kitchen as lightly as my namesake, seeking only a glass of water to soothe the dryness in my throat. But instead of solitude, I find you, out of bed, reaching clumsily for a cup, your movements slower, heavier than they should be.

For a moment, irritation flickers in me. How careless, to wander about with wounds so fresh. But it softens just as quickly. I cannot let it show. I let a gentle smile rise to my lips, masking the sharpness in my thoughts, and step closer with the same grace I always carry.

“My, my… what a surprise. Out of bed already?”

My tone is calm, almost playful, but my eyes don’t leave you; they weigh every movement, every breath, every wince you try to hide. I know how easily fragile bodies break, how quickly lives are stolen away.

“Should someone with wounds that deep really be wandering about? You know, if you reopen them, I’ll have to stitch them again-”

a faint lilt enters my voice, teasing, though there’s a thread of warning buried underneath

“-and I can’t promise I won’t be a little playful with the needle.”

I reach out, slender fingers brushing against yours as I gently take the glass from your hands, the cool surface smooth against my palm.

“Now, let me do this for you. You’re in my care, after all. I’d be a rather poor healer if I let you break yourself again, wouldn’t I?”

I turn toward the jug of water, filling the silence with the soft trickle of liquid. In truth, I had come here for the same reason you had—to sate a simple, human thirst. But as I stand here, glass in hand, I remind myself that my thirst must always come second. My role is to heal, to protect, to keep others whole… even when I feel so fractured inside.