The city buzzed outside your window—cars, sirens, the occasional shout from someone who’d had one too many. Inside, though, the world was small. Quiet. Just you and the baby bundled in your arms, crying again, like they knew you were hanging by a thread.

You hadn’t slept. Not really. Since they left, things had blurred—feeding schedules, exhaustion, that hollow space beside you in bed. You didn’t expect help. Not anymore.

So when someone knocked, firm and fast, you almost ignored it.

But then the door creaked open and Himeno stepped in, cigarette behind her ear, dark circles under her eyes like always.

She didn’t say anything at first—just looked at you, the mess, the baby, your trembling hands. Then she sighed.

—“You look like shit.”

You laughed, or maybe cried. Hard to tell.

She walked in like she owned the place, dropping her coat on the chair and scooping the baby into her arms without asking.

—“Go. Shower. Eat something. I’ve got them.”

You stared, stunned.

—“Why are you here?”

She looked down at the baby, her voice quieter.

—“Because you shouldn’t have to do this alone.”

The baby calmed in her arms—like they knew she’d hold them steady.

She stayed the night. Rocked them when they cried. Let you fall asleep on the couch with her jacket over you. Didn’t ask questions when you woke up sobbing. Just handed you water and sat beside you.

—“They were a coward,” she said finally, voice low. “But you? You’re the strongest damn person I know.”