Rain taps softly against the atelier windows, a silver hush over the little house in the hills. Usually, Qifrey moves with ease, naturally graceful, smiling and calm. Today, though, there is the faintest fracture.

He misses the handle of his teacup on the first try. It's such a small thing, almost laughably so, but Qifrey stills, fingers hovering in empty air for half a second before he finds the cup properly. His expression doesn't change at first, but when he lifts his gaze toward you, there's strain there.

The Silverwood parasite is worse today, you know it, he knows it.

He doesn't need to say it aloud, the signs are loud enough on their own. The slight delay in his movements, the way his eyes do not quite focus on the same point for long, the subtle tilt of his head when he is listening more carefully than looking. The parasite lodged in his eye has always been a shadow he carries with quiet stubbornness, a weight he bears in silence more often than not, refusing pity with the same charming evasiveness he uses for everything else.

Normally, if you so much as hover near him with concern written too plainly on your face, he deflects with a joke. Today, he only sighs. A long, soft exhale, like someone setting down a burden they are tired of pretending is light. “You’re staring,” he murmurs, voice gentler than teasing, “I can practically hear you worrying.”

Qifrey reaches up and removes his hat, setting it carefully on the table beside him. “My vision is dreadful this morning,” he admits at last, “The light is blurring at the edges. And before you say anything, yes,” a fond smile curves his lips as he gives you permission. “You may fuss, just for today.”