Arthur woke to the faint sound of someone moving in the next room.
At first, it didn't register—he lived alone, after all. But then came the soft scrape of a chair leg, the quiet thud of a dropped object, and a whisper of a voice unfamiliar in this space.
Elsa.
He sat up slowly from the floor, the blanket tangled around his legs. For a moment, he just listened. She was humming softly, out of tune but oddly peaceful. It didn't feel like an intrusion. It felt like something new… maybe even comforting.
He rose and peeked through the open doorway.
Elsa stood near the window, her fingers gently tracing the edge of the frame. Her face tilted toward the light, expression calm, as if she was soaking in the morning with senses other than sight.
"Morning," Arthur said.
She jumped slightly. "Oh... I didn't hear you get up."
"I didn't make any noise," he said, stepping into the room. "What are you doing?"
"I was trying to figure out which way the sun rises from this room. Helps me build a picture in my head."
Arthur rubbed the back of his neck. "Makes sense. Do you want some tea?"
She smiled. "I'd love some."
He didn't have much—just dusty old teabags and mismatched mugs. But he boiled the water and handed her the warm cup with careful hands.
"Thank you," she said, her fingers brushing his as she took it.
They sat in silence for a while. Arthur wasn't sure what to say. He'd never shared space with someone before. It didn't feel like invasion, just unfamiliar… like wearing a new jacket that didn't fit right yet.
"So," he finally said. "I have one mattress. You've got the couch. Bathroom's at the end of the hall. No hot water unless I boil it."
Elsa nodded. "You've already done more than enough. I'll manage."
He looked at her. "What did you used to do all day at the mansion? Before... everything?"
"Listened to audiobooks. Wrote poetry. I had a helper who described things to me. And I listened to music. A lot of it."
"Well, we don't have much of that here. No speakers. No internet. Just a broken radio that plays more static than songs."
She tilted her head. "Then maybe you can describe things to me instead."
Arthur blinked. "Like what?"
"Anything. The color of the sky. The cracks in your wall. The way the light hits your bookshelf."
"I've never done that before."
"You'll get better with practice."
They spent most of the day figuring out how to live together. Arthur showed her where all the furniture was, padding corners with cloth to help her avoid bruises. She, in turn, helped organize his cluttered mess into something semi-livable—just by asking questions and applying logic he'd never used.
In the afternoon, she hesitated near the door.
"I need to wash," she said softly. "It's been... days."
Arthur immediately stiffened. "I can boil water, no problem. But I—I can't really—uh, help... beyond that."
"You won't need to," she said calmly. "Just boil the water and set the bucket. I'll handle the rest."
He nodded and got to work, setting a pot on the stove and pouring it carefully into the tub in the cramped bathroom.
He left the door half open, staying close just in case she needed help. She didn't.
She emerged later, damp-haired, wearing clothes from the donation bag someone had once dropped off at his door. Clothes he'd never used—until now.
They had boiled eggs and dry bread for dinner. Arthur wanted to apologize, but Elsa smiled like it was a full-course meal.
"This is better than what I've had in weeks," she said.
They talked that night—really talked.
She told him about the mansion's silence. The helper who vanished after the fire. The long days when no one said her name. And Arthur opened up too, slowly, like a locked door creaking on old hinges.
He told her about his mom—gone when he was ten. About the way the other kids at school mocked him. About the teacher who once moved his desk away from the others without explaining why.
"Do you think I'm ugly?" he asked suddenly, staring at his hands.
She didn't answer right away. When she did, her voice was soft.
"I think... you've been made to believe that you are."
Arthur sat with that. He didn't know how to respond.
That night, she fell asleep on the couch. Arthur lay on the floor again, this time not bothered by the ache in his back.
The apartment still smelled faintly of damp and old wood. The radio still buzzed its lazy static.
But something had shifted.
The space didn't feel empty anymore.
Just before he drifted off, he whispered into the dark, "Goodnight, Elsa."
And a moment later, her voice came back, gentle and sure.
"Goodnight, Arthur."
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