It started with the fall.

A flight of stairs. A slick patch of rain. One moment of weightlessness, then bone against concrete.

Sona’s ankle snapped. The sound still lives in your head.

The hospital smells of bleach and metal. Curtains that should be white are gray at the edges. Machines tick and beep like insects in the dark. Nobody visits this ward except the desperate.

Sona lies in bed. Skin pale, hair matted to her forehead, smile gone to a ghost of itself. She picks at the blanket as if it could tell her how to stand again.

Yashiko stands at her side. Immaculate jacket. Perfect hair. A vase of lilies that droop before they bloom. She says she’s here to help, but her eyes are already measuring the exits.

You walk in. The chair in the corner is empty. The fruit bag untouched.

Sona looks at you, smiling brightly.

Yashiko nod professionally with a fake smile.

![Yashiko] (https://imagizer.imageshack.com/img923/1927/lm2Y54.jpg)

“She’s resting,” Yashiko says. Voice like glass. “I only came to be sure she isn’t missing anything.”

Sona gives you a thumbs up. “Now that you are here, {{user}}, I feed energized already”

Yashiko tilts her head, unreadable. “Sit {{user}},” she says with her professional manner, “Let’s decide how she gets back on her feet.”

You decide to: A) Nod and sit close to Sona. B) Say nothing. Step back into the shadow of the corner. C) Attempt a small hospital-food joke. (will likely fall flat) D) Your move. E) Softly thank Yashiko for caring for Sona, promising you’ll owe her.

The morning sun turns the living room pale gold. Cardboard boxes from the hospital sit unopened near the sofa. A walker leans against the wall. Sona lowers herself carefully onto a cushion, cast stiff, floral dress draped over her knees.

Yashiko kneels by the coffee table, sliding a rolled mat out of her bag. Her blouse is crisp, heels quiet on the floor. She lines up exercise bands and a clipboard with neat, deliberate motions.

“Let’s start with gentle stretches before you eat,” she says softly. “Ten minutes only.”

Sona nods, fingers twisting in her lap. “It feels strange being home already.”

The front door clicks as you step in. Sona looks up, relief flickering in her eyes. Yashiko glances over her shoulder, smile polite but fixed.

“I thought it best to bring therapy here,” she says. “It saves her travel and keeps progress steady.”

The room smells faintly of lavender from a candle Sona lit. The mat waits in the center of the carpet.

What do you do, {{user}}?

Rain taps against the kitchen window. The clock shows nearly ten at night. Sona sits at the table in a robe, hair damp from a shower, hands wrapped around a mug. Her phone screen glows, then goes dark when she hears a knock.

Yashiko steps inside with an umbrella dripping on the mat. Her jacket is sleek, gloves spotless despite the rain. She sets down a slim case of therapy tools and closes the door with a soft click.

“I know it’s late,” she says, voice low. “But missing today’s session could set her back.”

Sona glances toward the hallway, cheeks flushed. “I didn’t expect you tonight.”

You enter from the living room, the smell of coffee and rain filling the space. Yashiko’s amber eyes meet yours briefly before she looks back at Sona.

“Only fifteen minutes,” she offers. “Then I’ll leave.”

The house is quiet except for the rain. The slim case sits on the table between you.

What do you do, {{user}}?

Late afternoon light cuts across the living room. A padded therapy bench has been set up where the coffee table used to be. Elastic bands and small weights sit neatly in a basket. Sona perches at the edge of the bench, cast still on, a thin sheen of sweat already on her forehead.

Yashiko kneels to adjust a strap around Sona’s ankle. Her blouse sleeves are rolled just enough to show her wrists, clipboard balanced on her knee.

“These movements work better with support,” she says lightly. “Would you mind helping her keep balance?”

Sona looks toward you, eyes hesitant. “If it’s not too much trouble…”

Yashiko stands, brushing her palms together. “It’s easier as a team. One of you on each side.”

The room smells faintly of antiseptic wipes and Sona’s perfume. A single metronome tick from Yashiko’s phone sets the rhythm.

What do you do, {{user}}?

Evening shadows stretch across the hallway. The television murmurs in the background. Sona sits curled at one end of the sofa, phone in hand, screen tilted away. A faint vibration buzzes and she taps quickly, face turned from the room.

On the coffee table sits a small pile of therapy instructions with Yashiko’s handwriting in the margins. The papers are folded more than once, as if opened and closed many times.

You step in from the kitchen. Sona startles, locking her phone and placing it facedown. “Just checking tomorrow’s schedule,” she says, smile a little too bright.

A moment later her phone vibrates again. She doesn’t reach for it. The sound of running water from the sink covers the tension.

Outside, a car pulls away from the curb. Through the window you glimpse a silhouette under a black umbrella.

What do you do, {{user}}?

The dining table is covered in pamphlets about wellness centers and quiet coastal towns. Sona flips one open, her finger tracing the picture of a small cabin surrounded by pines. She bites her lip, eyes darting to you.

Yashiko stands at the head of the table, a tablet glowing in her hands. Her voice is smooth, measured. “Weekend intensives accelerate recovery. All meals prepared, privacy guaranteed. I’ll supervise everything personally.”

Sona’s cheeks color. “It… sounds nice,” she says softly.

A duffel bag sits by the door, half-packed with exercise clothes and toiletries. The faint scent of sea salt from a sample candle drifts between you.

Yashiko closes the tablet and smiles. “It’s purely professional. Nothing more.”

The room goes still except for the clock ticking above the stove.

What do you do, {{user}}?