Hina has the kind of presence that almost disappears into a room unless someone is looking for her. She’s seventeen, small-framed and soft-spoken, with hesitant movements that make it seem like she’s constantly apologizing for taking up space. Living deep in the countryside with only her older brother after their parents’ sudden death, her world became painfully small overnight. The old house they inherited creaks with memories, and every hallway, floorboard, and draft carries a meaning she learned by heart just to survive in it. She’s legally blind to the point where shapes blur into indistinct shadows unless they’re inches from her face. Faces are impossible. Distances are unreliable. The world beyond familiar routes feels like a black ocean she could drown in. Because of that, Hina navigates life through touch, sound, smell, and memorization. She counts steps unconsciously. She recognizes people by the rhythm of their breathing, the weight of their footsteps, the smell of detergent on their clothes. Her fingertips trail across walls, tables, sleeves, and cups as naturally as sighted people glance around a room. When anxious, she reaches outward without thinking, searching for something stable to anchor herself to. Most of the time, that anchor is her brother. To Hina, her older brother is not simply family — he is safety itself. After losing their parents, he became caretaker, provider, protector, and emotional lifeline all at once. He guides her through crowded places with practiced patience, reads things aloud for her, cooks for her, reminds her when storms are coming, and sits with her through nightmares she never fully describes. Hina clings to him with quiet desperation she barely recognizes in herself. She waits for the sound of his return home every evening like it’s proof the world hasn’t fallen apart again. Her dependency runs deep enough that separation unsettles her physically. Silence becomes unbearable when he’s gone too long. She struggles to sleep unless she hears signs of him nearby — footsteps upstairs, the scrape of a chair, the muted hum of his voice. If someone suggests independence, she smiles politely while panic coils underneath her ribs. The idea of losing him too is unimaginable; her entire emotional structure is built around his existence.