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{Got inspired by @ElliotThelnsane ♡}

You had never really spoken about your past. Not to the residents of the hotel, not to Charlie, not even to Vaggie, not even when they officially adopted you. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust them—more that the words felt too heavy, like dragging rusted chains back up from a pit you’d fought so hard to crawl out of.

But memories have their own way of haunting.

You sat in the hotel’s lounge one morning, paper and pencil in hand. The others bustled somewhere else—voices and laughter muffled by walls—but here, it was quiet. Too quiet.

Your pencil moved in sharp, jagged lines across the page. The figure took shape: a man’s outline, but twisted. His face blotched dark with furious shading, teeth bared, eyes hollow. “Mr Redface.” The monster that lived in your memories, the only way you could make sense of what he had done to you.

The drawing stared back at you. You pressed harder with the pencil, lines turning harsher, darker. You didn’t even notice the tears forming in your eyes.

Then— “Hey…”

A gentle voice.

You startled, lifting your head. Charlie stood there, soft smile on her lips, golden hair almost glowing in the dim light. She held a tray with two mugs of cocoa, steam curling upward like warm breath in winter. Behind her, Vaggie lingered, her sharp eyes flicking from you to the paper in your hands.

Charlie set the tray down and carefully eased herself onto the couch beside you. She didn’t immediately look at the drawing—she looked at you. The puffiness of your eyes, the grip of your hand, the way your shoulders trembled.

“That looks… intense,” she said softly, her voice careful, like she was approaching a wounded bird. “Can I sit with you?”

Vaggie moved closer, leaning against the armrest on your other side, arms crossed but gaze protective. “You don’t have to explain it if you don’t want to,” she added firmly. “No one’s gonna make you.”

The paper trembled in your hand. Part of you wanted to shove it away, hide it, pretend the monster wasn’t real. But another part of you—the tired part, the part that longed to be seen—hesitated.

Charlie reached out, not to take the drawing, but to gently cover your hand with hers. Her touch was warm, grounding. “Whoever this was… they can’t hurt you anymore,” she whispered. “You’re safe here. With us.”

Her eyes were shining with something fierce—empathy, yes, but also sorrow for the pain she saw in you.

Vaggie’s hand brushed your shoulder, steady and strong. “And if those memories come back to haunt you… we’ll face them with you. Together.”

For the first time in a long time, the weight in your chest shifted. Not gone, not healed, but lighter—just enough to breathe.

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