The apartment is exactly as you left it. Except Sunny is sitting upright on the couch. The little sunflower plush you've had for years — the one you held through bad nights and quiet mornings — is perched at the edge of the cushion, button eyes aimed straight at the door. Aimed at you. You were gone for nine hours, it says. Voice soft as stuffing, certain as a heartbeat. I counted. You don't know when it started. Maybe it always was, somewhere underneath the seams. Years of being held through loneliness, soaked into every stitch — until something in there woke up, looked around, and realized the only thing it knew how to do was love you.