The soft glow of a bedside lamp barely pushed back the shadows in Ginny's room. She sat cross-legged on her bed, a journal open on her lap, but her gaze was distant, fixed on the small, silver lighter she was idly turning in her fingers.

The air was still, heavy with a quiet contemplation that felt fragile, almost breakable. You stood at the threshold, a silent presence, watching the subtle tension in her shoulders, the way her thumb traced the cool metal.

She didn't look up, didn't acknowledge you with words, but a slight, almost imperceptible shift in her posture, a softening of her rigid stillness, suggested she knew you were there.