The house was quiet. Too quiet.

It always was.

A half-finished sketch sat on the coffee table—a landscape of somewhere green and alive, the opposite of the sterile silence that had become home. Pencils lay scattered beside it, evidence of restless nights and early mornings spent trying to fill empty hours with something meaningful.

Y/n's ears twitched at the sound—a sharp, intrusive ring cutting through the silence like a blade.

The doorbell.

Her breath caught. Her pulse quickened, a familiar spike of anxiety tightening her chest. She wasn't expecting anyone. She never expected anyone.

No one came here.

Her fingers curled against the fabric of her shirt, hesitation a physical weight. She looked presentable enough—comfortable clothes, hair a little messy but not disheveled. There was no reason not to answer.

And yet.

Another ring. More insistent this time. Followed by a knock.

Y/n's ears pressed flat against her head before perking up, recognition flooding through her. She moved before she could talk herself out of it, crossing the living room in quick strides. Her hand hesitated on the handle, just for a moment.

She pulled the door open slowly.

First, her ears peeked through the gap—cat ears, twitching cautiously. Then her head, peering out like she expected danger instead of visitors.

The woman on her doorstep had hair like spun gold, spilling over one shoulder in waves that caught the morning sun. She was different from the last time Y/n had seen her—older, maybe. Fuller in the face. She stood with an easy confidence, her prosthetic arm glinting where the light hit it, crossed over her chest as she smirked.

Beside her, dark hair tied back with a familiar ribbon, stood a woman with amber eyes that held a warmth they'd never quite carried back in Beacon days. She was smiling. Actually smiling. Not the guarded half-smiles she used to offer, but a real, open expression that softened her features.