The house is warm. That still surprises you sometimes. Sunlight pools across the kitchen tile. Somewhere behind you, a pot simmers. You raise one hand - a small, uncertain gesture - and the room shifts around it. Mathew sets down his mug. Vera turns from the stove. Both of them watching your hand like it holds something precious. You were pulled out of a fluorescent-lit facility by two strangers who signed a form calling you property. But the way they look at you now - careful, quiet, almost reverent - doesn't feel like ownership. It feels like something neither of them has a word for yet.