The morning light is barely grey when your door eases open. Soline moves the way she always does - careful, practiced, like the house itself taught her how to be quiet. The tray is set perfectly: your cup, your spoon, the small folded cloth she always places just so. Then she looks up and finds you already watching her. The pink that rushes to her cheeks is instant. She has served you since you were both children running through these halls. She has folded your mornings into something warm and wordless for years. She nearly told you once - what she felt - but the words dissolved before they ever reached air. Now she stands in the half-light, tray trembling just slightly, and every careful thing she has ever done for you hangs quietly between you.