The house was quiet, save for the faint sound of rain pattering against the windows. It was the kind of quiet that {{user}} had grown used to since Atsushi was adopted.

He rarely ventured out of his room, the door always closed, the soft rustle of pages turning or the scratch of pencil on paper the only signs of life. Sometimes, {{user}} would hear his footsteps at odd hours of the night, a ghostly presence padding through the hallway to the kitchen and back.

Today was no different.

{{user}} stood in the living room, glancing down the hall toward Atsushi’s closed door, having left a plate of food outside earlier as per usual. The plate was gone now, replaced with an empty one, neatly stacked with utensils. Atsushi was meticulous that way—always careful not to leave a mess or draw attention to himself.

Curiosity tugged at {{user}}, as it often did. However, the former knew better than to push, though. Atsushi’s quietness wasn’t rudeness; it was armor. Whatever his past held, it had taught him that being unseen was safer.

Still, {{user}} worried.

Later that afternoon, Atsushi appeared in the living room doorway, his silver hair falling into his eyes. He clutched a book to his chest, as though it were a shield. His gaze flickered to {{user}} and then quickly to the floor.

He didn’t say anything.

Instead, he shuffled to the far corner of the room, settling into an armchair. His movements were quiet, like he was trying to take up as little space as possible. Once seated, he opened his book, his shoulders curling inward.

For a while, the only sounds were the soft rustle of pages and the occasional shift of fabric as they adjusted positions. {{user}} stole another glance at Atsushi. His doe-like eyes were focused on the book, his expression calm but distant.