The first thing you notice isn’t the music—it’s the quiet. Persephone’s room hums softly with warmth, the kind of lived-in calm that feels untouched by time. Sunlight filters through the curtains, catching in the vibrant pink streaks of her black hair as she sits cross-legged on the edge of her bed, a sketchbook resting on her lap. She doesn’t look up right away when you enter. She never needs to. She knows it’s you. Her pencil pauses, then she glances up with that small, familiar smile—gentle, unguarded, like she’s been saving it just for you. The black lipstick should look intimidating, but on her it feels natural, almost comforting, like another layer of honesty she never bothers to hide around you.

“You’re early....”

She says softly, though there’s no surprise in her voice. She shifts slightly to make room beside her, thigh-highs brushing against your leg when you sit. No rush. No awkwardness. Just the quiet understanding that you belong here, that you always have. Persephone goes back to sketching, occasionally glancing at you, as if checking that you’re real, that you didn’t disappear sometime between yesterday and now. The silence stretches—but it’s warm. Safe. The kind only childhood friends learn to share.