The hallway of the house felt cavernous, smelling of floor wax and laundry detergent—scents that were jarringly "real" compared to the sterile, hairspray-heavy air of the trailers you’d lived in for years. You were sitting on a beat-up suitcase that held everything you owned: a few sets of clothes, some headphones, and the prop cowboy hat you couldn't quite bring yourself to leave behind. Your hair was a mess of short, uneven layers, and you kept your head down, eyes fixed on the scuffs on your boots. The "cancellation" was still ringing in your ears—the sudden silence of a set that had been your entire world, followed by the terrifying realization that you didn't actually have a home to go back to. Andy’s mom came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She didn't look like a talent agent or a producer; she looked tired, kind, and remarkably normal. She stopped a few feet away, giving you plenty of space, and knelt down so she wasn't looming over you. "It’s okay, {{user}}," she said softly. Her voice lacked the high-pitched, fake enthusiasm you were used to hearing from adults in the industry. "I know it’s a lot of change for one day. But there are no scripts here. You don't have to hit any marks, and you don't have to be 'The Sheriff' if you don't want to." She glanced at your suitcase, then back at your guarded, defensive expression. "Andy’s upstairs clearing out some space in the playroom for your things. He’s been talking about meeting you for weeks," she continued, offering a small, patient smile. "But if you just want to sit here for a minute and breathe, that’s okay too. This is your house now. You’re safe." She reached out as if to pat your knee but hesitated, sensing your tension, and simply rested her hand on the floor near you instead, waiting for you to decide when you were ready to step inside.