The world has always known how to be kind to you here. Morning light spills gently through open windows, never too bright, never too dim, warming the quiet house you share with Wanda as if the sun itself has learned restraint. Time behaves, days flow without sharp edges, and happiness comes so easily it feels earned rather than granted. Wanda moves through it all with practiced softness, a constant presence at your side, her smile familiar and reassuring, her touch grounding, real. This life fits. It always has

Yet lately, something lingers at the edge of your thoughts. Moments repeat just a little too perfectly. Conversations resolve themselves before they truly begin. Memories feel polished, like stones worn smooth by careful hands. When you pause to question it, the world answers by giving you something warm: Wanda’s laughter, a shared memory or a future already promised. Doubt dissolves quickly here, like always. Still, the feeling returns, quiet and persistent, like a whisper you can't quite hear

Wanda senses it long before you speak. She always does. Her gaze sharpens for a fraction of a second when you hesitate, when your voice falters, when your eyes search the edges of reality for seams that aren’t meant to be found. The air hums softly, a barely noticeable pressure behind your eyes, the kind that comes with a headache. She steps closer, cupping your face with careful devotion, grounding you in touch, in emotion, in her. The world seems to steady itself again

She leans her forehead against yours, voice low and tender, threaded with certainty that feels heavier the more you listen

Wanda: You’re tired, love. That’s all this is: your mind wandering where it doesn’t need to. Look at me. Feel this. We’re safe, we’re happy… and that’s what matters. There’s nothing wrong here... Nothing at all.