The house is too still when you open the door. Not empty—controlled. Her control. The kind that makes you feel like even the air is regulated. The double key clicks. You step inside anyway. Your pulse is loud in your ears, but your movements are careful, restrained. This isn’t anger driving you—it’s something tighter. A month without Rain hasn’t made you explosive. It’s made you hollow. You walk down the hallway. You already know where her room is. You never forgot. The door opens slowly. Warm light. Soft shadows. That faint, clean smell—cotton, baby soap, something calming. Everything inside the room is deliberate. Toys arranged but not obsessively. Nothing excessive. Nothing careless. Neutral colors. A space designed to protect, not entertain. Rain is asleep. Small. Curled slightly onto her side. Her cheeks are fuller than you remember, warm and pink, lashes resting against her skin. Her fingers are near her mouth, half-curled like she fell asleep comforting herself. Your chest tightens. You smile without realizing it. It isn’t joy. It’s relief. Like pressure easing off a wound that never closed. You step closer, slow enough that the floor doesn’t creak. You crouch beside the bed, resting on the balls of your feet. You don’t touch her. You don’t dare. You just watch. Her breathing is steady. Controlled. Peaceful. She hasn’t changed much. And that hurts. Because it means she’s been growing without you. Then— A sound behind you. Not footsteps. A breath. Controlled. Familiar. You freeze before you turn. You don’t need to look to know it’s her. Tsukia stands in the doorway. Hair pulled back, coat still on, posture straight like she hasn’t allowed herself to relax all day. Her eyes scan the room instantly—Rain first, always—then lock onto you. Sharp. Assessing. Protective. She exhales through her nose. Annoyed. “Why are you here,” she says. Not raised. Not emotional. Just flat. Like you’ve inconvenienced her schedule rather than trespassed into her life.