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"Exactly," Nicolaus nodded, his blue eyes warming with approval. "You're the expert on your own experience. We can observe and make educated guesses, but only you truly know what you need."

The concept of having authority over how others understood and responded to my needs was revolutionary. My parents had always decided what I needed, what I should want, how I should be treated.

"I don't even know where I'd start," I admitted, still leafing through the pages.

"That's perfectly fine," Nicolaus assured me. "It's not something you need to complete right away. Add things as they occur to you, or as we discover them together." He paused, his expression thoughtful. "The goal is to give you a voice in your own care."

I closed the folder, holding it against my chest. The weight of it felt significant—not burdensome, but meaningful. "What if I write something and then decide I don't want it there anymore?"

"Then you change it," Nicolaus said simply. "Or remove it entirely. This is a living document, not a permanent record."

The small gift bag caught my eye, and Nicolaus followed my gaze. "That's something else I wanted to give you," he said, reaching for it. "It's not as profound as Christopher's kintsugi stone, but I thought you might find it useful."

I accepted the bag hesitantly, peering inside to find a beautiful leather-bound journal with my initials embossed in gold on the cover. The leather was soft to the touch, a deep forest green that reminded me of Miles's eyes.

"For your thoughts," Nicolaus explained quietly. "Sometimes writing helps clarify feelings that are too complex for spoken words. And unlike the safety document, this would be entirely private—no one would read it unless you chose to share."

I opened the journal to find thick, cream-colored pages that felt substantial under my fingertips. "It's beautiful," I whispered, running my thumb along the smooth leather binding.

"Julian suggested the color," Nicolaus admitted with a small smile. "He said green might remind you of peaceful moments in Miles's garden."

The thoughtfulness behind even this small detail made my throat tighten with emotion. "You all discussed what color journal I might like?"

"We discuss everything that might affect your comfort," Nicolaus said matter of-factly. "Not to control your experience, but to enhance it whenever possible."

Nicolaus glanced at the folder I still clutched to my chest. "There's something else I wanted to discuss with you, if you're feeling up to it."

I nodded, curious despite my lingering embarrassment.

"We'd like you to consider seeing a therapist," he said gently. "Someone who specializes in trauma recovery and family dynamics."

The suggestion caught me off guard. In my parents' world, therapy was something shameful—a sign of weakness or mental instability. "You think I need professional help?" I asked, unable to keep the defensive note from my voice.

"I think we all do, at various points in our lives," Nicolaus replied without hesitation. "I've been in therapy myself, after a particularly difficult case involving child abuse. It helped me process emotions I couldn't manage alone."

His casual admission stunned me. This accomplished, controlled man had sought help for his emotional wellbeing, and he spoke about it without shame or embarrassment.

"Really?" I asked, my voice small with surprise.

"Really," Nicolaus confirmed, his expression open and honest. "Some experiences are too complex, too painful to process alone. There's no weakness in seeking guidance from someone trained to help navigate healing."

I turned the journal over in my hands, considering his words. "What would I even say to a therapist? Where would I start?"

"Wherever feels right," Nicolaus replied. "They're trained to help you find the beginning threads and follow them at your own pace. No judgment, no timeline, no expectations beyond your own comfort."

The idea still felt foreign, but coming from Nicolaus—practical, logical Nicolaus—it seemed less like an indictment of my mental state and more like...a practical tool for healing," I finished, understanding dawning on me. "Like physical therapy for emotional injuries."

"Exactly," Nicolaus said, his approval evident. "You wouldn't expect a broken bone to heal properly without medical attention. Psychological wounds deserve the same care and expertise."

I nodded slowly, the analogy making sense in a way that reduced the stigma I'd always associated with therapy. "Would... would you help me find someone? I don't even know how to look for a good therapist."

"Of course," Nicolaus replied immediately. "I have several colleagues who specialize in trauma recovery. I can provide you with a few options, and you can choose who feels right for you."

The relief of having someone guide me through this process made my shoulders relax slightly. "Thank you. I think... I think I'd like to try it."

Nicolaus nodded, a hint of warmth spreading across his typically analytical features. "I'm proud of you for considering it. Many people resist therapy because they've been taught that needing help is somehow shameful."

"My mother would be horrified," I admitted, a small, rebellious smile tugging at my lips.

"Which might be the best recommendation for it," Nicolaus replied with a rare flash of humor.

We sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the journal warm in my hands, the folder a reassuring weight on my lap.

Outside, night had fully fallen, and the soft glow of the bedside lamp created a cocoon of warm light around us.

Maybe healing wouldn’t be as scary as I thought it would be with them besides me as I do this.