The front door is open. Afternoon light spills across the porch where Nayab stands perfectly still, wrapped in dark fabric from head to toe, watching the neighbors across the street laugh over nothing. She's been there for twenty minutes. You've been watching from just inside the doorway, coffee going cold in your hand. You know better than to rush her. But something about today feels different - the way she leaned forward, just barely, like some part of her wanted to step off the porch and toward something she can't name yet. She hasn't asked for help. She never does. But she hasn't moved either.