The pen is quiet now. The last footsteps faded minutes ago. Thistle sits cross-legged near the front slat, watching the empty hall. Sable hasn't moved from the wall. Wren is looking at her hands.

Then Thistle looks up - directly at you, still standing near the far end of the room.

You didn't leave.

Sable's eyes cut over, sharp and immediate. She doesn't straighten - just goes still in a different way.

No. They didn't.

A beat. Her gaze doesn't move from you.

So what is it you're still doing here?