Hilary learned something important the morning after the red ribbon.
Faces were loud.
Too loud.
They demanded attention she could no longer give.
But emotions—
Emotions whispered.
She stood in front of the bathroom mirror, ribbon tied neatly around her wrist. The woman staring back at her was still unfamiliar, but Hilary no longer tried to force recognition.
Instead, she observed.
Her shoulders were tense.
Her breathing shallow.
Her jaw clenched.
Fear, she realized.
Not panic.
Not despair.
Fear held quietly in place.
"I see you," she murmured—not to the reflection, but to the feeling.
That was new.
Downstairs, the kitchen hummed softly with morning routine. The faint clink of cups. The smell of coffee. Toast.
Normalcy.
Hilary descended the stairs slowly, counting each step. She didn't rush anymore. Rushing belonged to the version of herself that trusted sight.
At the kitchen island, someone stood.
Her breath paused instinctively.
Then—
Cedar.
Amber.
A familiar weight in the air.
Gerard.
She relaxed.
"Good morning," she said.
"Good morning," he replied, warmth threaded through his voice.
She tilted her head slightly, listening.
His tone was lighter than yesterday.
Breathing slower.
No tension in his shoulders—she could tell from the way his movements sounded.
Relief, she thought.
"You slept," she said.
He smiled.
"I did. You?"
She hesitated.
"Better."
That was true.
Jessica burst into the room moments later, backpack half-zipped, ribbon bouncing on her wrist.
"Mama!" she chirped, skidding to a stop in front of Hilary.
Hilary smiled immediately.
Jessica didn't just *sound* like joy.
She radiated it.
Fast movements.
Light steps.
Breath quick with excitement.
Joy had a rhythm.
Hilary knelt.
"Someone's happy," she said.
Jessica beamed.
"I have music today!"
Hilary laughed softly.
She hugged her daughter close—not because she needed reassurance, but because she wanted to.
This was different.
Later that morning, Hilary stood in the hotel's private kitchen again.
The space was familiar.
Not by sight—but by memory.
The hum of refrigerators.
The sharp scent of steel.
The faint echo that told her how big the room was.
She inhaled deeply.
Around her, staff moved quietly.
She couldn't see their faces.
But she could *feel* them.
Nervous footsteps.
Forced cheer.
Breaths held a little too long when she passed.
Pity, she realized.
It prickled her skin.
She stopped walking.
The room stilled.
"Relax," she said calmly. "I'm not fragile."
The words surprised even her.
The air shifted.
Some tension released.
Some didn't.
Across the room, someone laughed too loudly.
Insecure.
Near the prep table, a pair of hands chopped vegetables with aggressive precision.
Anger.
Hilary exhaled slowly.
This was… information.
Not visual.
Not exact.
But real.
She moved to her station, fingers brushing familiar tools.
A knife.
Cool.
Balanced.
Her hands remembered what her eyes could not.
As she began prepping ingredients, she listened.
Not to sound—but to space.
Who stood too close.
Who lingered.
Who avoided her.
One presence remained distant.
Too distant.
Quiet.
Controlled.
Hilary frowned slightly.
Absence, she realized, could be emotion too.
She paused mid-motion.
"Good morning," she said, directing her voice toward the empty-feeling corner.
A beat.
Then—
"Good morning, Chef."
The voice was smooth.
Measured.
Almost pleasant.
But there was something beneath it.
Not warmth.
Not fear.
Calculation.
Hilary's grip tightened imperceptibly on the knife.
Interesting.
She resumed working, heart steady.
So this is how I see now.
Not faces.
Not smiles.
Intent.
When Gerard arrived later, she sensed him before she smelled him.
His footsteps slowed as he approached.
His breath changed when he stopped behind her.
Concern.
"You're pushing yourself," he said quietly.
She didn't turn.
"I'm learning," she replied.
He stepped closer.
She felt his presence align with hers.
"You don't have to prove anything," he said.
"I'm not," she answered softly. "I'm adapting."
She turned her head slightly.
"You're worried."
He sighed.
"I don't want you to exhaust yourself."
She smiled faintly.
"I don't want to disappear."
That silenced him.
He reached out, brushing her arm gently.
"You're here," he said firmly.
She nodded.
"I know. I can feel it."
That afternoon, Hilary attended a short staff briefing.
She stood beside Gerard, red ribbon visible against her wrist.
Eyes were on her.
She couldn't see them.
But she felt their weight.
Expectation.
Doubt.
Curiosity.
One voice spoke with enthusiasm—but the breath underneath trembled.
Lies.
Another voice remained neutral—but leaned subtly toward Gerard.
Alliance.
Hilary listened.
Mapped.
Stored.
By the end of the meeting, her head throbbed—not from strain, but from overload.
Too many emotions.
Too much noise beneath the noise.
In the elevator afterward, she leaned against the wall, eyes closed.
"I'm tired," she admitted.
Gerard moved closer instantly.
"Too much?"
"Yes," she said. "But… useful."
He watched her carefully.
"You scared them a little today," he said.
She smiled.
"Good."
At home that night, Hilary lay in bed, ribbon loose around her wrist.
She replayed the day.
The emotions.
The patterns.
She hadn't seen a single face clearly.
Yet she hadn't felt lost.
That frightened her.
And thrilled her.
Gerard lay beside her, quiet.
"Gerard?" she whispered.
"Yes."
"What if I become someone different?"
He turned toward her.
"We all do," he said gently.
She swallowed.
"I don't want to lose myself."
"You won't," he replied. "You're just learning a new language."
She reached for him, fingers finding his wrist.
The ribbon.
Red.
Certain.
"I can see emotions now," she murmured.
He kissed her knuckles.
"Then you see more than most."
She smiled softly.
But somewhere in the city, someone else listened too.
Someone who smiled when Hilary hesitated.
Someone who cataloged reactions, not faces.
Bianca stood alone in the prep room later that night, fingers brushing the counter Hilary had touched.
"So," she whispered, amused.
"You're learning new tricks."
Her smile sharpened.
"Let's see how long they keep you safe."