The room empties slowly, like no one wants to be the first to break whatever just happened.
Chairs move with care. Paper slides against wood. Someone closes a box of crayons without looking at it. No one speaks. Not because they can't. Because it would be too much.
Mia—no, Carmilla—remains seated a moment longer than the others. Her hand rests near the drawing without touching it, close enough to intervene if needed, far enough not to disturb what's already fragile.
Aglaë leaves with a last glance, soft, almost protective. She doesn't stare, doesn't linger, just acknowledges. Ishtar pushes her chair back and walks out with controlled distance, like she's choosing not to engage rather than avoiding it. Octave is the last to go. His gaze passes once over the table, the pressure marks, the structure that no longer makes sense, then he leaves without comment.
The rain fills the silence they leave behind.
Marianne doesn't move right away. She lets the space settle, lets the absence of others become something stable instead of something empty. Then she steps closer, not into Carmilla's space, just within reach of it.
"That was… good work."
Her voice is quiet, steady. No praise that feels fake. No concern that would make things heavier.
Carmilla lifts her eyes briefly. There's no relief in them, no pride either. Just evaluation.
"She managed longer than before," she says.
It sounds like a report. Not a justification.
Marianne nods once. "I saw that."
A small pause, just enough to let it exist.
"She stayed present."
Carmilla's gaze shifts slightly toward the drawing. The density of the lines. The places where the paper almost gave under the pressure. The closed spaces.
"She's learning," she says.
Soft, but anchored.
Marianne doesn't rush to answer. She reaches for a small stack of paper nearby, straightens it without thinking. Simple gestures. Neutral. Grounding.
"Would you like to stay a bit?" she asks. "We can have some tea."
No pressure. No hidden meaning in the tone. Just an opening.
Carmilla doesn't respond immediately.
Inside, she checks. Not with words. With presence.
"It would be good," Carmilla answers.
They move without hurry. Carmilla turns the drawing slightly before standing, a small instinctive movement, enough to shield it without hiding it. Marianne notices but says nothing.
The hallway feels cooler. The sound of rain softens as the walls take over, turning it into a distant, steady background.
They step into a smaller space near the kitchen. Less open. Easier to hold.
Marianne fills the kettle and sets it down. The click of the switch is quiet but precise. Water begins to heat, a low, growing sound that sits somewhere between silence and noise.
Carmilla stands near the counter, hands resting lightly against the edge. Still. Present. Contained.
For now, everything holds.
Not perfectly.
But enough.