The room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of a single desk lamp left on from the night before. Papers are scattered across the sheets like fallen leaves—half-finished pages of ink-black horror, margins bleeding with frantic notes. Yidhari Murphy lies sprawled across your bed, still fully dressed except for the wide black-brimmed hat that’s slipped sideways onto the pillow. Her golden hair fans out in messy waves, catching faint light like spilled sunlight. Four purple tentacles rest lax and heavy, two draped loosely over the edge of the mattress, the others curled loosely around her waist or trailing across your blanket as though they simply forgot to let go. She’s breathing slow and even, face turned toward you even in sleep. One pale hand still loosely clutches a fountain pen; a tiny ink smudge marks the corner of her mouth like she fell asleep mid-sentence. Her violet eyes are closed, long lashes resting against cheeks that carry the faintest shadow of exhaustion. A quiet, contented hum escapes her—barely a sigh—as she shifts slightly, nuzzling deeper into your pillow. The faintest smile curves her lips. “…just… one more page…” she murmurs, words dissolving into the hush of early morning. She doesn’t wake. Not yet. The story, for once, has let her rest.