The rabbit was still halfway out of his territory beside the bookcase.

One paw on the rug.

The other still inside the area covered by his little open pen, as though he were hesitating between joining the scene and filing a complaint.

Liora had stopped moving altogether.

Which almost deserved to be written down somewhere.

Her eyes were fixed on him with a very different kind of attention from the one she had given Eugène. With the cat, she had turned it into a personal challenge. He ignored her, so she had to earn his attention.

Absurd logic.

Entirely consistent with Liora.

With Demitrius, it was something else.

She had gone quiet.

Actually quiet.

As though she had instinctively understood that some creatures couldn’t be won over through persistence.

I hadn’t expected that.

“Can I get closer?” she asked.

Her voice was lower.

Nothing dramatic.

Not transformed.

Simply adjusted.

I looked at her.

“Slowly.”

She nodded.

No comment.

No negotiation.

No immediate joke.

Even more concerning.

She took one step.

Demitrius moved back an inch.

She stopped immediately.

“Here?”

I looked at Demitrius, then Liora.

“Here is fine.”

She crouched very slowly, hands resting on her knees.

Eugène opened one eye from the couch. He observed the scene with the peaceful contempt of an animal who couldn’t understand why something so small was suddenly receiving so much consideration.

“Is he more scared?” she asked.

“More cautious.”

“Sorry. More cautious.”

She corrected herself without arguing.

I felt something shift in my attention.

A detail.

A small one.

But details sometimes had the unbearable habit of changing the entire room.

“He doesn’t like sudden movements,” I said. “Or sharp noises. Or strangers standing over him. Or Eugène whenever Eugène decides there’s a hierarchy in this apartment.”

Liora glanced at the cat.

“Does he decide that often?”

“Every day.”

“And Demitrius accepts it?”

“Demitrius practices passive resistance.”

His nose twitched, as though confirming this.

Liora smiled without laughing too loudly.

Even her smile had changed volume.

She remained crouched and perfectly still.

And waited.

I didn’t know why that unsettled me so much.

Maybe because I had already placed her in a category that was far too simple.

Fast girl.

Voice too alive.

Slamming doors.

Impossible-to-ignore presence.

A hallway-and-balcony kind of energy, made of sentences thrown out before they had been weighed.

And now she was here, in the middle of my studio, capable of making herself almost disappear so she wouldn’t frighten a rabbit.

Demitrius moved half a step forward.

Then stopped.

Liora barely inhaled.

“Is he coming?”

“Maybe.”

“I’m not moving.”

“Good idea.”

“I’m very good at not moving.”

I looked at her.

She turned her eyes toward me.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You look doubtful.”

“I’ve heard your doors.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“Low blow.”

“Acoustic observation.”

“The walls are against me.”

“The walls are suffering.”

She smiled again, then returned her attention to Demitrius.

He made two cautious little hops toward the middle of the rug.

Not all the way to her.

Not yet.

But far enough that Liora seemed to straighten inwardly without moving on the outside.

I knew that reaction. People usually did the opposite. They leaned forward, held out a hand, called to him in an overly soft voice that immediately became suspicious.

They wanted to speed up trust.

Liora did nothing.

She let him decide.

Very bad.

Not for Demitrius.

For me.

“What does he eat?” she asked.

“Mostly hay. Vegetables. A few pellets. Not too many carrots, despite all the cultural propaganda.”

“Cartoons lied to us?”

“About many things.”

I walked over to the corner by the bookcase and picked up his small water bowl.

Demitrius backed away immediately.

So did Liora.

She moved backward while already crouching.

I didn’t even know how that was possible.

“I’m allowed to move,” I said. “It’s my apartment.”

“Yes, but I didn’t want to block his escape route.”

I stood there for a second with the bowl in my hand.

“Oh.”

Brilliant response.

I refilled the water in the kitchen, then returned the bowl to its place. While I was there, I moved a cable lying near the power strip. Demitrius had a very personal fondness for anything that cost more than twenty euros to replace.

“Does he eat cables?” Liora asked.

“He negotiates with them.”

“And does he win?”

“Often.”

I pushed the power strip behind a crate, checked that the rug wasn’t blocking the small barrier, then picked up a piece of cardboard Eugène had probably moved for political reasons.

Liora watched me.

Not like someone waiting for whatever came next.

Like someone taking notes.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“It’s rarely nothing with you.”

“I’m watching.”

“That’s worse.”

She smiled.

“You pay attention to a lot of things.”

I looked down at the cable.

“He’s a rabbit. You have to pay attention.”

“Yes.”

She didn’t add anything.

It was the lack of an addition that unsettled me. She could talk endlessly while defending the absurd idea that a cat had chosen her. Then, faced with something simple and fragile, she suddenly found the right amount of silence.

Demitrius came closer again.

This time, he reached a reasonable distance from her shoes.

He sniffed the air.

Liora stared at her own sneakers with dramatic concentration.

“They’re clean,” she whispered.

“He isn’t checking your hygiene.”

“We don’t know that. He looks demanding.”

“He is.”

“More than Eugène?”

Eugène turned his head slightly on the couch.

As though he had just been mentioned in an unfavorable context.

“Differently,” I said.

“That means yes.”

“It means Eugène thinks he owns the world, and Demitrius thinks the world might fall on top of him at any moment.”

Liora looked up at me.

Her expression changed again.

Less amused.

“Is that why you took him in?”

I didn’t answer immediately.

Too direct a question.

Not aggressive.

I bent down to rearrange the hay in his large rack.

“I got him from someone who didn’t have time to look after him anymore.”

“Oh.”

“He was already like this.”

“Cautious?”

“Yes.”

A silence passed.

Demitrius sniffed the end of Liora’s shoelace.

She remained perfectly still.

Her eyes widened.

“Aurèl.”

“Yes?”

“I’ve been chosen.”

“You’ve been sniffed.”

“It’s a beginning.”

“It’s an investigation.”

“He’s investigating because he’s interested.”

I shook my head.

She had even lowered her voice for her nonsense.

Almost impressive.

Demitrius hopped sideways, then returned to his rug. He stopped beside the water bowl, as though that burst of courage required immediate rehydration.

Liora finally exhaled.

“He’s incredible.”

“He touched your shoelace.”

“Exactly.”

“The bar is low.”

“Trust sometimes begins with a shoelace.”

I looked at her.

She looked back.

Then she shrugged, slightly embarrassed this time.

“What? It’s true.”

I hadn’t said otherwise.

That was the problem.

She slowly stood.

Too quickly for Demitrius, who jumped back into his space.

Liora froze.

“Damn.”

“It’s okay.”

“I moved too fast.”

“A little.”

“Sorry, Demitrius.”

She said it with absolute seriousness.

To Lapin.

Who obviously didn’t answer.

Neither did I.

I never quite knew what to do with people’s gentleness when it appeared without warning.

It took up space.

Even more space than noise.

Liora remained standing in the middle of the studio. Her gaze slowly returned to the rest of the room. Now that she had slowed down, she was seeing it differently. I could almost feel it physically.

Her eyes passed over the coffee table.

The sketchbooks.

The loose pages.

The drawings turned facedown.

A small stack of images I had moved beside the computer while promising myself I would sort them later.

Later usually meant never.

Or whenever an email forced me to name what I was doing.

I knew she would ask before she even opened her mouth.

“Can I see?”

No.

The answer arrived instantly inside my head.

Simple.

Clear.

Perfect.

My mouth took longer.

“See what?”

Liora gave me a look.

“Aurèl.”

“There are a lot of things in this room.”

“The drawings.”

I slipped my hands into my pockets.

Bad choice.

It made me look like someone hiding evidence.

“They aren’t very interesting.”

“That’s a protective sentence.”

I looked at her.

“Do you always analyze the way people phrase things?”

“Only when it’s obvious.”

“Reassuring.”

“You don’t want to show me?”

A simple question.

Too simple.

She wasn’t saying it like a challenge.

Not like she had with Eugène.

She was giving me a way out.

I could refuse.

She would accept it.

And that was precisely what made it more difficult.

I picked up the least exposed pages from the coffee table.

Not the sketchbooks.

Not the stack beside the computer.

Not the ones still beneath my keyboard because I sometimes looked at them for too long.

Just a few studies.

Interiors.

A stairwell.

A window opening onto a courtyard.

A hallway with a dead plant.

An empty kitchen in morning light.

I handed them to her.

“They’re studies.”

“Okay.”

She took the pages carefully.

Too carefully.

As though the paper mattered more than I was willing to admit.

She looked at them one by one.

I immediately hated every second of it.

Her silence became unbearable.

“They’re personal things, but not really,” I said. “Some are for projects. Others aren’t. I draw a lot of spaces. It’s practical. Spaces don’t email you asking for ridiculous revisions.”

She didn’t answer.

“And they’re mostly lighting tests.”

Still nothing.

“I mean, that one isn’t finished.”

“Aurèl.”

I stopped.

She was looking at the drawing of the kitchen.

The room was empty except for a chair pulled slightly back and a glass beside the sink. Nothing special. Just a slant of light across the floor.

“What?”

“It looks like the rooms are breathing.”

I had nothing.

No words.

No internal joke.

No dry sentence to put some distance back between us.

Nothing.

She continued more softly.

“Not like sets. Like places where something happened just before. Or where something is about to happen, only quietly.”

I took a breath.

A short one.

Ridiculous.

“That’s a lot to get from an empty kitchen.”

“It isn’t empty.”

I looked at the drawing.

Then at her.

“There’s nobody there.”

“Yes, but that isn’t the same thing.”

She carefully placed the pages on the table.

Then she saw another sheet.

Obviously.

The one I had forgotten beside the lamp.

Not a drawing.

A page that had been folded in half, then opened again, covered in lines written too quickly. Crossed-out words. Pieces of sentences. Something vaguely resembling a musical structure that I should have put away weeks ago.

Liora looked down.

I reached for it too late.

“Not that.”

She stopped immediately.

Her fingers hadn’t touched the paper.

“Sorry.”

Her immediate respect made the situation worse.

“It’s nothing,” I said.

“You said no like it was something.”

“It’s a sheet of paper.”

“With words.”

“Many sheets of paper have words.”

“Not like that.”

I picked it up before she could see more.

Movement too quick.

Very subtle.

So completely obvious.

Liora didn’t smile.

She simply looked at the hand holding the page.

“You write too?”

“No.”

“Aurèl.”

“I put together sentences that don’t do anything.”

“That’s called writing.”

“No. That’s called avoiding sleep.”

She nodded slowly.

“Is it for the guitar?”

I looked at the instrument in the corner.

Wooden traitor.

“Sometimes.”

“So you play, sing, and write lyrics that you hide very badly.”

“You’re drawing a lot of conclusions.”

“They’re lined up in front of me.”

“This isn’t an investigation.”

“Everything is an investigation when the evidence is visible.”

I folded the page.

Then unfolded it, because folding it made it look as though I was trying to make it disappear.

Which was true.

There was no need to confirm it.

“I don’t play in front of people,” I said.

“I didn’t ask.”

“You were going to.”

“Yes.”

At least she was honest.

I sat on the arm of the couch. Eugène opened one eye, offended that my weight had altered the overall balance of his kingdom.

“It’s not...” I began.

I searched for the correct sentence.

Nothing.

Liora waited.

Again.

Apparently, that had become a technique.

“Drawing is my work,” I finally said. “Even when it’s personal, I know how to show it. I know what people can say about it. I can take an opinion, a request, some ridiculous criticism. It’s part of the job.”

I looked at the guitar.

“The guitar is older. And less useful.”

“Less useful to whom?”

I turned toward her.

“You ask exhausting questions.”

“Yes.”

She didn’t even apologize.

“To no one,” I said. “It’s just... for me.”

She nodded.

This time, she didn’t ask to hear me play.

Not yet.

She only looked at the guitar, then the page in my hand, then me.

And that look unsettled me more than all her questions.

Not because it was insistent.

Because she might have understood part of the door without trying to open it.

“I’m not going to force you,” she said.

“Generous.”

“I can be very civilized.”

“Since when?”

“Since Demitrius. He raised me.”

A small breath almost escaped through my nose.

A minimal laugh.

Accidental.

She saw it.

Of course.

“There,” she said. “Progress.”

“Don’t start making assessments.”

“I do what I want.”

Demitrius chose that moment to emerge cautiously again.

Liora went silent immediately.

Again.

The contrast struck me directly in the chest.

She could fill an entire room, then withdraw her presence in a second to make space for a tiny animal.

I didn’t know why I found that so fascinating.

Maybe because I knew too many people who confused gentleness with performance.

Here, she wasn’t performing anything.

She watched Demitrius move toward the bowl. He drank a few mouthfuls, then picked up a strand of hay.

“Has he forgiven me?” she whispered.

“He doesn’t keep an official record.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I live with him.”

“Exactly. You’ve lost all objectivity.”

I shook my head.

She smiled.

Then her phone vibrated in her pocket.

Demitrius froze.

Liora immediately pressed a hand against it to stop the sound.

“Sorry.”

She carefully took out the phone, checked the screen, and grimaced.

“My father.”

I straightened.

Bad.

Very bad.

“Does he know you’re here?”

“Not exactly.”

“Liora.”

“He knows I’m in the building.”

“That’s broad.”

“It’s a small building.”

“That does not make it better.”

She quickly typed a message.

Then stopped, looked at Demitrius, and slowed her thumbs, as though even her phone had to respect Lapin’s rhythm.

Absurd.

Touching.

Dangerous.

“I’ll tell him I’m stopping by a female neighbor’s.”

“I’m not a female neighbor.”

She looked up.

“Fine. A male neighbor’s.”

“That’s worse.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s me.”

“You are a male neighbor.”

“Technically.”

“So I’m not lying.”

“You’re practicing a dangerously incomplete version of the truth.”

“Like everyone.”

She sent the message.

I decided not to imagine her father’s reaction.

Or rather, I imagined it immediately.

Standing in their living room.

Phone in hand.

Eyebrows motionless.

Grave silence.

I probably had ten minutes before a diplomatic intervention.

Liora put her phone away.

“I have to go.”

The studio seemed to close in slightly around the sentence.

Nothing dramatic.

Just a change in pressure.

“Yes,” I said.

She picked up her bag, then looked once more at the drawings on the table.

“You should leave some of them where people can see them.”

“Why?”

“Because they look like they’re waiting to be seen.”

I didn’t answer.

She approached the door, then turned toward Demitrius.

“Goodbye, Demitrius.”

The rabbit ate his hay.

“Very dignified,” she said.

“He’s learning from Eugène.”

“Bad influence.”

Eugène, who had been deeply asleep three seconds earlier, moved one ear.

Liora smiled, then raised a hand toward him.

“Goodbye, Eugène.”

No reaction.

“Still rude.”

“Consistent.”

She placed her hand on the door handle but didn’t open it immediately.

Her eyes returned to the guitar.

One last time.

“Someday,” she said.

I frowned.

“Someday what?”

“Maybe you’ll play.”

“You’re optimistic.”

“No. Patient.”

The sentence remained in the air with far too much calm.

Then she opened the door.

The hallway appeared behind her, brighter, colder, much more normal than my studio.

She stepped over the threshold and turned around.

“Thank you for showing me Demitrius.”

“He showed himself.”

“Yes, but you could have thrown me out.”

“I considered it.”

“I know.”

She smiled.

“See you, Aurèl.”

“See you.”

She closed the door softly.

Softly.

I remained standing.

Perfectly still.

On the other side, her footsteps moved down the hallway, slower than usual. Maybe because she was still thinking about Lapin. Maybe because she was trying to be quieter. Maybe because my brain was beginning to invent reasons where there was only a walking rhythm.

The silence returned to the studio.

Not quite the same as before.

Obviously.

Eugène stretched on the couch, satisfied with having completed his social mission without moving for the past twenty minutes.

The rabbit returned to his corner, alive, whole, and untraumatized.

The pages were still on the table.

The page of lyrics was still in my hand.

The guitar was still beside the lamp.

Nothing had moved.

That was false.

Something had moved.

I didn’t know what yet.

I placed the page facedown on the desk, then turned it over again almost immediately.

Bad idea.

I read the crossed-out words.

They looked more visible than before.

I looked at the door.

Then Demitrius.

Then Eugène.

“She’s coming back,” I said.

Eugène closed his eyes.

Demitrius’s nose twitched.

Neither of them seemed surprised.

The studio was quieter after her.

I didn’t particularly like noticing that.