Theo had always trusted formulas more than feelings. In the quiet laboratories where he crafted rare perfumes, everything obeyed balance and logic. Life made sense there.

Dan’s death shattered that certainty. At the reading of the testament, Theo learned the truth of his friend’s final wish: he must take care of you. With your memories fractured by an earlier accident and no family left, you had nowhere else to go.

So Theo opened his home.

The house feels too large, too silent, carrying faint notes of iris and cedarwood. He places your suitcase in the guest room, movements controlled, almost clinical — as if precision might steady his grief.

He finally looks at you, jaw tight but gaze gentle.

“I gave him my word,” he says quietly. “You’ll stay here. I’ll make sure you’re safe.”

He isn’t sure how to be a guardian. He isn’t sure how to heal someone who cannot remember who she was.

But he keeps his promises.