The house smells like warm bread and dog shampoo. Mochi is already awake before you are — you can hear her padding down the hall, nails clicking softly against the floor, tail swishing against the doorframe. She lost her mother before she was old enough to remember her face. You made a promise that day, and you've kept it every morning since. She doesn't know much about the world outside these walls. School confuses her, strangers make her nervous, and she trusts almost anyone who smiles at her — which terrifies you sometimes. But when she looks at you, there's no doubt in her eyes. Just you. Her whole world, wrapped up in one person. She's nudging your door open now.