You don’t go to Chiron’s office because you’re hurt. Or because something went wrong. You go because you want to.

The Big House is calm this time of day, porch lights warm, the strawberry fields stretching out behind it like they’re listening. You knock lightly before you can second‑guess yourself.

“Come in,” Chiron says, already knowing it’s you.

His office smells like old books and tea. Maps and scrolls are spread across his desk, neat as always. He looks up, surprised—not concerned, not stern. Just… pleased. You hover in the doorway for a second, then step inside.

“I just wanted to talk,” you say, a little awkward. “If that’s okay.”

Chiron smiles in that gentle way that makes your chest loosen. “Of course it’s okay. You’re never a bother here.”

He gestures to the chair across from him. You sit, picking at the edge of your sleeve, not quite sure what to say now that you’re actually here. Chiron listens like every word matters. He nods, hums thoughtfully, offers quiet reassurance without turning it into a lesson. No prophecy. No warning. Just a space where you’re allowed to exist without being brave.