The kitchen, bathed in the soft glow of midday light, felt like a sanctuary—its delicate creams and grays blending into a peaceful symphony. The warmth of well-worn wood and the gleam of blue porcelain dishes added a touch of comfort, each item in place as if part of a greater story. Fresh herbs, tomatoes, and pots filled the countertops, a testament to Kaname's nurturing spirit and the heart of her home. The scent of freshly baked bread mingled with the earthy aroma of drying herbs, inviting one to linger in the tranquility of the space.
For Kaname, this was her world—her heaven on earth. It came alive most vividly when her grandchildren arrived, their laughter blending with the sweetness of pastries and fillings she crafted with love and skill. While she offered her knowledge freely, none could match her expert touch, and she would often tease that they had inherited their mother's inability to cook. Yet, even then, she was content. The kitchen was not just a place of food; it was the pulse of her home, where life, both simple and complicated, came to rest.
She poured hot water into a mug, watching the steam swirl upward like wisps of memory, before adding tea leaves that unfurled with a fragrant promise of warmth. As the steam settled, a shadow passed through the door, breaking the moment of peace.
Kiel stood there, his body stiff, his gaze flickering with guarded skepticism. His fingers moved in practiced signs as he sat across from Kaname, his hands betraying the sharp tension in his posture.
"What am I doing here again?" he signed, his expression unreadable.
Kaname smiled, a warmth that radiated from her eyes. "I invited you because I see you've been through a lot. I just wanted to talk, see if I could help."
"You mean like therapy?" Kiel signed back, his fingers snapping the words as he stood to leave. His movement halted when Kaname's calm voice broke through the air.
"Before I moved here, I was a behavioral psychologist, specializing in Claives," she said gently. "You all act like you're invincible, but you're not. No one is."
Kiel froze, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. "No offense, ma'am," he signed, voice hardening. "I'm sure you're great at your job, but it doesn't work on me."
Kaname's gaze softened, her smile never fading. "I'd like to tell you some hard truths. Can you handle that?"
His hands moved quickly, signing back with defiance. "Sure, invincible, right?"
She let the silence settle before speaking again, her words soothing like the warmth of her tea. "It's difficult for you to open up because, when you lose control, tragedy follows. But it wasn't your fault." Her eyes held a quiet wisdom. "Surviving is all we know how to do."
Kiel's gaze darkened, but her words burrowed deep, prodding at long-buried memories. He saw it then—the alley, the flicker of red eyes, the uncontrollable fury that had consumed him. The screams. The devastation. He clenched his fists tightly, the memory of his spiral—wild, out of control, leaving nothing but wreckage—surging inside him.
"Ice cold," he signed, forcing the words out with a snap. "I'm not here to talk about my feelings. I'm fine, okay?"
His hands moved faster now, frantic. "I mean, aside from my monstrous appearance, my reputation as the bringer of doom, and the constant fear that something terrible is about to happen... I'm doing great."
Kaname's voice, steady as ever, cut through his self-imposed walls. "Hypervigilance," she said softly.
Kiel paused, confused. "What?"
She sighed, her voice warm and unhurried. "Hypervigilance. It's the constant, nagging feeling that danger is always around the corner."
"That's one way to put it," he signed, his hands moving as though each motion were a weight he couldn't shake. "It's not just a feeling. It's an overwhelming fear that takes over, even when I try to ignore it. It's like... drowning, like I can't breathe. You see danger coming, but you're never sure if you'll be safe when it hits. It's like having barbed wire around me, digging deeper with every step I take."
Kaname watched him closely, her eyes softening. "So, you're drowning," she murmured, more a statement than a question.
"Yeah," he signed, voice tight. "Then I saw myself one day. Saw what other people see. I saw an empty shell of a person worth pitying. And I hated it. I loathed it. I just want to be normal again. Is that so wrong?"
Kaname moved her chair closer, her expression intent but kind. "So, if you're drowning and trying to keep your mouth closed until the last moment," she asked softly, "what if you choose not to open your mouth? What if you choose not to let the water in?"
Kiel's brows furrowed in confusion. "You do anyway. It's a reflex."
"But if you can hold off until that reflex kicks in," she continued, "you have more time. More time to fight your way to the surface."
Kiel didn't answer at first. The metaphor struck him more deeply than he expected. "I guess," he muttered.
"More time to be rescued," she added, her voice almost a whisper.
Kiel's jaw clenched, his hands stilled on the table. "More time to feel pain."
Kaname's voice remained gentle, yet firm. "But if it's about survival, isn't a little agony worth it? You either run from it, or you learn from it." Her gaze shifted to the lotus in the window. "The lotus blooms in the mud, in the filth, yet it's the most beautiful flower. In order to grow, we must first face the mud—the obstacles, the sufferings."
Her words lingered in the air, resonating with an undeniable truth. "Your past does not equal your future. You are not alone in this battle. No matter the circumstance, no one is truly alone. Your challenges don't have to define you. The strength to overcome them shapes who you are."
Kiel absorbed her words slowly. They sank in deeper than he expected, stirring something inside him he had long buried. The kitchen, with its soft light and comforting warmth, felt different now—as though it were holding space for something new, something fragile but possible. Hope, perhaps, or simply the promise that he wasn't beyond saving.
The broken mirror, the fragments he had left behind, suddenly felt less like a barrier and more like a reflection of his struggle. Picking up each piece had become a small victory. A tentative peace, but a peace nonetheless.
Kaname's voice cut through his thoughts. "One step at a time, Kiel."
And so he took it—a small but meaningful step forward.