Miyu awoke slowly, expecting the echo of chains, the stench of blood, the cold stone walls of the lab—or the fire and gunshots of the Winchesters.
Instead, she heard the faint clink of porcelain cups, the soft creak of floorboards, and the comforting hum of a kettle.
When she sat up, the blankets slid from her shoulders. The warmth startled her. She pressed her trembling hands to the soft fabric, afraid it would vanish.
Then the door opened, and Melinda stepped in, carrying a tray.
"You're awake," Melinda said gently, setting the tray on the small table beside the bed. "I made you some tea. And soup. You need strength."
Miyu's eyes, still glowing faintly, flicked from the tray to Melinda. Suspicion and fear lingered, but not the same fear she felt for the hunters.
"Why?" Miyu whispered, her voice raw. "Why are you… kind?"
Melinda sat on the edge of the bed, her gaze calm, steady. "Because you need kindness more than anyone right now. You've lived in darkness for so long, Miyu. But there's still light in you—I can feel it."
Miyu's throat tightened. She didn't touch the food at first, but when Melinda quietly began sipping her own tea, Miyu reached for the spoon, her hands shaking. The soup was warm, almost painfully so against her starved body, and for the first time in months, she ate without tasting ash.
—
Over the next few days, the house became her fragile sanctuary.
Miyu would sit on the porch at night, wrapped in blankets, listening to the wind while Melinda tended the garden. Sometimes Melinda spoke softly about her life, about the spirits she'd helped cross over, about her husband Jim and their small-town struggles.
Miyu barely spoke at first. But she listened.
One evening, as the cicadas sang outside, Miyu whispered, "I don't hear them anymore."
Melinda turned, puzzled. "Hear who?"
"The voices. The demon… it's gone." Miyu's eyes welled, her shadows curling protectively around her. "I thought… without it, I'd be nothing. But now there's only silence. It's so loud."
Melinda reached across the small table, her hand covering Miyu's. "Silence can hurt at first. But it also means you're free. You get to choose who you'll be, Miyu. Not the voices. Not the hunters. You."
Miyu stared at her hand, trembling. No one had ever touched her without fear or cruelty. She whispered, "I don't know how to be… anything else."
"Then we'll learn together," Melinda said softly.
—
The days blurred into weeks. Slowly, Miyu's wounds closed. She began to help Melinda with small chores—watering plants, folding laundry, sweeping floors. It was clumsy, awkward. Her tendrils sometimes knocked things over, but Melinda never scolded, only smiled.
At night, Miyu dreamed less of blood and fire, and more of the small warmth of tea shared across a quiet table.
For the first time in her broken life, Miyu wondered if she was more than an experiment. More than a monster.
Maybe… she could be someone.