Arthur had never woken up to the sound of crying before—not in his own home, anyway. The noise was faint, muffled by the couch cushions and thick with effort, like whoever was crying was trying not to be heard. But it pierced through the stillness like a siren.
He sat up instantly, blanket falling from his chest. The first thing he saw was the faint outline of Elsa curled on the couch, her back to him. Her shoulders trembled.
He hesitated. "Elsa...?"
She didn't answer. He rose carefully, walking barefoot across the cold floor. When he reached her, he crouched beside the couch and spoke softly.
"Hey... are you okay?"
Still, she said nothing. But now he could see the dark patch beneath her hips, staining the couch cushions.
Blood.
His heart jolted. "Are you hurt? Did something happen?"
Finally, her voice broke through the silence. "It's my period."
Arthur exhaled hard—not from relief, but from the sudden rush of realization.
"I didn't know it was coming," she whispered. "I've never tracked it well, and the stress must've thrown it off. I'm sorry."
"Don't be," he said quickly. "It's okay. We'll figure it out."
He ran to the kitchen and grabbed a towel, dampened it with warm water, and returned. She was sitting up now, holding her arms tightly around herself.
"I need pads," she murmured. "And water to wash."
Arthur nodded. "I'll get them. Stay here."
He didn't bother changing out of his sleeping clothes. He grabbed the emergency twenty he kept taped under the table and ran—barefoot, still half asleep—to the corner shop.
The woman behind the counter raised an eyebrow at him when he slammed the pads and a bar of soap on the counter.
"For a friend," he mumbled, handing over the crumpled note.
By the time he got back, Elsa had changed into another pair of pants from the donation bag and was trying to scrub the couch with cold water. Her hands were shaking.
Arthur took over. "You rest. I've got it."
"You shouldn't have to clean up after me," she said.
"You live here now," he replied. "It's not 'after you.' It's just... us."
He set water on the stove and poured it into a bucket. Then, carefully, he led her to the bathroom.
"I can take it from here," she said.
"You're sure?"
"Yes. I just needed help getting there. Thank you."
He stood outside the door, waiting, listening to the sound of water and shuffling.
When she came out, her cheeks were pink, and her hair was damp. She looked smaller somehow, like someone who had tried too hard to be strong and finally gave in to being human.
They didn't speak much that day. She rested more, and he cooked noodles for lunch. They listened to the broken radio as it hissed static and faded voices.
That evening, she finally spoke again.
"Back at the mansion, there was always someone to help. My mother. Then the helper. Then the guard's wife. I've never had to do it alone."
Arthur stirred the pot on the stove. "You're not alone now."
She smiled faintly. "I know. That's what scares me."
He turned off the stove. "Why?"
"Because you've been kind. And kind people leave."
Arthur set two bowls down on the table. "I'm not going anywhere."
She didn't respond. But that night, when she went to bed, she asked, "Could you sit near me for a while? Just until I fall asleep."
He sat by the couch, arms crossed over his knees, and listened to her breathing slow.
Eventually, she whispered, "Thank you, Arthur. For not making me feel ashamed."
He didn't know how to respond. So he said the only thing he could.
"You don't have to be strong all the time. Not here."
And for the first time in years, Arthur felt strong enough for both of them.