Shyla would find herself again—re-center, steady, and keep going.

Slow steps. Quiet confidence.

She moved through a world that offered her no visuals, only signals. Memory. Instinct.

Nothing rushed her. Nothing broke her rhythm.

Even when the world reached out and tapped her unexpectedly, she didn’t fall apart.

She adjusted. And kept going. Over time, something shifted.

Wick didn’t stop being Wick. He still carried that restless spark, that need to test, to reach, to interact in the only language he knew. But the way he did it changed.

His timing softened.  His swats grew quieter. Less about surprise, more… deliberate.

Like he understood. Like, in his own strange way, he was learning her world instead of forcing her into his.

And Shyla? She let him. No fear. No correction. No resistance.

Just quiet acceptance—as if she had already decided that whatever this small, chaotic creature was… it belonged.

There was a kind of patience in her that didn’t ask to be noticed. A steadiness that didn’t need to prove anything.

She didn’t try to teach him.

She just… made space.

And somehow, that was enough.