The steam rose in lazy swirls from Mira's cup, curling between them like a ghost refusing to leave. The rain outside had softened into a faint drizzle, the rhythmic patter against the glass syncing with the sound of her pencil scratching gently across paper.
Alden sat across from her at the small table — his sleeves rolled up, eyes quietly tracing her movements. He didn't press her, not yet. He knew the way she held her cup too tightly, the way her breathing trembled when she said she was fine.
"So," he said finally, breaking the silence. "You said you had a dream."
Mira didn't look up. "Mm."
"What was it about?"
Her pencil paused mid-line. A drop of tea fell from her spoon and rippled in the mug. "I... I don't really know," she murmured. "It's all fragments. Faces, a field, a tree."
"A tree?" His voice was calm, but his eyes sharpened. "What kind of tree?"
She shrugged, forcing a faint smile. "I told you, I don't remember that much. It's just a blur."
Alden leaned back, nodding slowly. "Alright," he said, though the disappointment in his tone was nearly imperceptible. "I just... thought maybe it meant something."
"Maybe it doesn't." She took another sip of tea, as if to drown the heaviness that threatened to surface. "Dreams are just... static, right? Nothing real."
He hummed softly. "Sometimes static carries a signal."
Mira didn't respond. Her pencil returned to the page, sketching swiftly, her brows furrowing in concentration. Alden watched as shapes emerged — not the haunting tree this time, but two human figures. One reaching out, hand extended. The other, smaller, sinking slightly below.
Alden tilted his head. "Who are they?"
Mira's lips curved faintly, but there was melancholy in them. "You," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "Helping me to falter."
He frowned slightly, trying to piece the words together. "To falter?"
She nodded, her gaze still fixed on the drawing. "You always help me... but sometimes I think it's not to rise, Alden." Her voice grew quieter. "It's to fall more softly."
Something flickered across his expression — guilt, sorrow, maybe fear. He didn't answer right away.
Instead, he reached forward and gently turned the sketch toward himself, studying it. His fingers lingered near the drawn hands that almost touched but didn't. "That's one way to see it," he said, his tone softer now, almost careful.
Mira looked up at him, eyes distant yet searching. "What's the other way?"
He smiled faintly — the kind of smile that hides more than it reveals. "That maybe... I'm not letting you fall at all."
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The rain deepened outside, rolling like a heartbeat against the window. Mira's hand trembled slightly as she traced over the drawn fingers, smudging the charcoal line until it blurred into grey.
And Alden just watched her — the way her lips parted in thought, the way her eyes held a storm she didn't understand.
He reached out, covering her hand gently with his own.
"You should rest again," he murmured. "Dreams have a strange way of returning when you try to chase them."
She looked up at him then — hesitant, curious, a trace of longing in her eyes. "And if I don't want them to?"
Alden's expression softened, but his words were measured. "Then let them find you instead."
He brushed his thumb over her knuckles, his warmth anchoring her — and yet, in his eyes, there was something she couldn't quite name. Something that lingered between affection and fear.
As she leaned back in her chair, her gaze flicked toward the window. The rain had stopped. The clouds outside were parting.
But in the reflection, just for a fleeting second, she could swear she saw a shadow beneath the oak-shaped tree beyond the glass.
Watching.
Silent.
Waiting.
The faint aroma of tea still lingered in the air when Mira looked up from her sketchbook. Alden had gone quiet again, his gaze lost somewhere beyond the fogged window. The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable, but it was heavy — like something waiting to be said but never finding its way out.
Mira bit the inside of her cheek, contemplating something. Then, with an almost childlike tone, she broke the silence.
"Hey…"
Alden hummed, half-distracted, his thumb brushing the edge of her sketch.
"Would you mind," she began carefully, "if I… set up my little painting corner in your study? I mean—just the corner, nothing big. It's got the best light, and when you're working there… it feels calm."
Alden's eyes flicked toward her — cautious, sharp beneath the softness of his smile. "The study?"
She nodded eagerly, leaning forward. "Yeah. I promise I won't touch any of your files or the, uh… scary psychological experiments." Her grin widened playfully, trying to cut the tension. "Just me, my canvas, and probably a lot of paint on your floor."
He chuckled — low, measured. "You do realise I've spent years organising that room, right?"
"Exactly!" she said brightly. "Which means it's the most organised chaos zone in the house. It'll balance out my creative mess."
"Mira…" His voice carried a note of warning.
She clasped her hands together in mock pleading, widening her eyes dramatically. "Please? Pretty please? With extra marshmallows on top?"
He sighed, leaning back, rubbing his temples like a man surrendering to the inevitable. "You really don't understand the meaning of no, do you?"
"Hmm." She tilted her head, smirking. "No, I don't think I've ever heard you say it convincingly."
That earned her a small laugh, genuine this time. He looked at her — really looked — at the way her hair fell over her shoulder, a smudge of charcoal still marking her cheek. There was life in her eyes again, colour returning where fear had once lived.
"Alright," he said finally, his voice soft but deliberate. "You can paint in the study."
She gasped in delight, jumping slightly in her seat. "Really?!"
He nodded, though his tone carried a quiet condition. "But — you don't touch anything on my desk. Not the files, not the drawers, not the cabinet. And if you feel dizzy or… off, you stop immediately, alright?"
"Dizzy?" she teased. "What, you think I'll get drunk on paint fumes?"
His expression didn't change — serious now, eyes locking with hers. "I mean it, Mira."
Her smile faltered just a little. She saw something flicker behind his gaze — concern, fear, maybe guilt. She couldn't tell.
"Okay," she said quietly. "I promise."
He nodded once, seeming to relax again. "Good." Then, with a faint grin, he added, "Though I expect at least one masterpiece in return for sacrificing my sanctuary."
She smirked. "Deal. But no judging my art this time, Doctor Perfect Perspective."
He chuckled under his breath. "I'll try my best."
Mira stood, gathering her pencils and the sketchbook. As she walked past him, she ruffled his hair — to which he gave an exaggerated groan — and said,
"Maybe you'll finally see how my mess can make your order a little more beautiful."
Alden looked at her as she walked toward the study, the soft swish of her steps echoing faintly through the hall.
He smiled, but as soon as she disappeared, the expression faded.
His eyes shifted toward the fireplace — where faint ashes still lingered from what he'd burnt the night before.
He exhaled slowly, whispering under his breath, almost like a confession:
"Let's hope you never find what I hid from you, Mira…"
The rain had stopped outside, but inside the house, something heavier hung in the air, unseen and waiting.