After lunch I had no plan in mind, no real destination, just a vague sense of being out of place in a house that wasn't mine.

Of course, I could always log back on into Darkmoon Adventure VR, I could get myself to level 50 for my Apprentice Knight class and come back to help Hailie grind later for her progress towards Bishop, which would need her to be around level 100, a really long way, but it would be worth it just for Roleplay purposes.

It's just that… A few hours to play per day is really bugging me out. She has purpose, I do not, and that's just not cool for me.

Of course, I didn't need to be attached to Hailie and babysit, in fact, I don't think Eirlys would even mind if I live here but kept my distance away from Hailie if I just talk it out with her about my duty as a kind of whistle-blower, she must've known about my perverted tendencies, too. But for the past week or two, she didn't seem to really care.

And… If I wanna stay connected, I think Hailie wouldn't care, like, at all, like, nada fucks given, if I grind to level 300 while she's still level 30.

But like… How do you put it? I don't mind the existence of Hailie Sonder in my life. And I feel like my gaming session had more purpose with that girl around, the slow-paced stuff doesn't mind me, despite the fact that I should've been level ~65 instead of 42 right now. And Olga wouldn't be able to even arm wrestle me.

Was I… Am I growing attached to someone and actually having fun in a video game instead of making it competitive and a repetitive grind? This is toxic, I don't want this… God, I think I might puke.

As I was using my brain for pointless tasks, my feet shuffled at a slow, unplanned velocity as it carried me down the corridors of the mansion.

I walked past painted vases and the hushed steps of staff who never looked me in the eye, of paintings I don't recognize, of a world I just randomly woke up and feel like I don't fit in with. Maybe it's just a sudden depression, it happens a lot in angsy teenager who thought they live in the worst condition, like me, for example, it's just that I still am insufferable past my teenage years.

Eventually I found myself at a family wing, to a door I half-recognized, its polished wood glimmering faintly in the light from a nearby window. And when I approached, I finally realized where it is.

This was the instrument room, where Anshur once led me to watch Hailie play. And though not music, I heard some noises coming from the inside right now.

Quite a cruel reminder, I hadn't been here since that time, peeking through the door crack like some guilty voyeur. This time, though, I didn't even look inside right away. The soft sound of harp strings leaked out before I touched the brass handle.

The sound suggested it was plucked tentatively, not confidently, the kind of sound a student makes when they would try to make sense of the tunes they were about to play, and have to revert back to their very old self, back when they never touched the instrument before at all and was clueless on what they were doing.

I took a peak.

The music room was built like a sanctuary of an artist, well-polished floorings reflected the soft light pouring in from tall, curtained windows, and the air carried that faint, resinous smell of wood that clung to every classic stringed instrument.

Against the walls stood rows of gleaming stands: violins, violas, and cellos, each resting in custom cradles as if they were museum pieces more expensive than what I could ever hope to afford.

A polished lever harp, cream-colored with faint golden accents, claimed the center of the room, tilted toward a cushioned seat designed for comfort.

That made me questioned, does Hailie feel it in her rear?

Lining one side of the chamber was a shelf of wind instruments, from silver flutes to deep mahogany clarinets, each placed on velvet holders to protect them from breakage. There were even more exotic choices, a pair of lutes, a glossy sitar, and a koto with its delicate bridges neatly aligned.

The far corner was crowded with drums of varying sizes: bongos, hand drums, and a tall djembe with skin stretched taut, its carved base painted with intricate patterns. None of them required pedals, every choice clearly intentional, as though the room itself had been curated for a girl who could never play with her feet.

After enough peaking, I pressed my back to the wall beside the door, slid down until I was sitting on the cold floor tiles, and just listened. Hailie was inside, practicing alone, the old women I met before, her instructor, had probably called it her "homework."

I listened to Hailie's struggling, there was few notes that repeated, a few faltered, then she would try again, pressing what honestly felt like just pressing random buttons and flicking random strings. No melody I could follow or grasp, just her fingers fumbling back and forth between strings. I'd be lying if I said it wasn't boring, but I didn't mind, honestly.

As someone who was, fundementally, is tonedeaf and never listen to music, boredom was something I could sit with easily since I could just assume it was some kind of $100 per ticket Opera level type of absolutely sophisticated and smart music music.

I closed my eyes and let the sound blur into the background, letting out a loud breath of air, letting the thoughts form itself.

She was in there, Hailie Sonder, fumbling at the harp but still doing it despite having no one there to see or appreciate, she was still fighting an still learning. She was still pushing herself to have a skill, to carve something new into her life.

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