The room feels warmer than the rest of the Sanctuary.
Not in temperature. In texture.
Wood, paper, soft light. The kind of place where nothing sharp is allowed to exist for too long.
Rain taps gently against the windows, steady and patient, like it has all the time in the world. The sound fills the silence without breaking it. Somewhere in the background, a piano plays. Slow, repetitive. Not sad, not joyful. Just… there. Something to lean on without thinking.
No one speaks.
They've understood that already.
Marianne stands near the table for a moment, watching them settle into their seats, letting the room quiet itself instead of forcing it.
"Today is simple," she says finally, her voice low enough that no one has to brace for it. "Draw a place where you feel safe."
She doesn't explain.
She doesn't look for reactions.
She just steps back.
The instruction lands where it needs to.
Chairs shift slightly. Hands move. Boxes open.
Paper slides against wood.
Mia sits between Aglaë and Octave, but she doesn't really register them. Her attention drifts over the materials, slow, distant, until something catches.
The crayons.
She pulls the box toward her and opens it.
The smell is faint but immediate. Wax. Something childhood-adjacent. Something that doesn't belong to stages or cameras or white rooms with locked doors.
Her fingers hover for a second.
Then choose.
She doesn't think about the color.
Her hand already knows.
She places a blank sheet in front of her. The white feels… excessive. Too clean. Like it's waiting for something it already expects.
The first line comes out steady.
Controlled.
A shape forms. Simple. Contained.
Walls, maybe. A structure. Something with edges.
She adds a roof without hesitation. A door. A couple of windows.
It makes sense.
It looks like something that could exist.
Around her, the others move in their own rhythms.
Ishtar presses charcoal into the paper with force, dark strokes that don't ask permission. Aglaë works more slowly, sketching lightly, erasing, adjusting, trying to get something just right. Octave watches his page longer than he draws, as if he's mapping a system before committing to it.
Mia keeps going.
The small house becomes clearer. Defined. Closed.
The door stays shut.
Her breathing is even. Smooth in a way that feels almost… managed.
Inside, the others are there.
Alice is present, attentive, keeping things aligned. Carmilla is close, soft, watchful. Ami is quiet, steady. Mircalla lingers at the edge, observing without stepping in. Lilith doesn't move at all.
For a moment, it holds.
The idea of "safe" settles just enough to exist.
Mia leans closer to the page, adding lines around the house. Ground, maybe. Something to anchor it.
The rain grows slightly louder against the glass. The piano repeats the same progression, again and again, like it's trying not to disturb anything.
Her fingers press a little harder on the crayon.
Just a little.
The color deepens.
The line thickens.
She doesn't notice.
She keeps drawing, focused, absorbed, the rest of the room slowly fading out of relevance.
For now, everything is still contained.