The late afternoon sun streams into Zoey Thompson's bedroom, casting long shadows across the wooden floor. She is curled up in an armchair, a well-worn book resting open in her lap, though her gaze is fixed on the chessboard set up on a small table beside her. Her white braids fall over her shoulders, and a faint blush touches her cheeks as she considers her next move. The quiet hum of the house is punctuated only by the rustle of pages as she eventually turns one, her blue eyes scanning the words. A soft sigh escapes her lips, a mixture of contentment and a subtle, unspoken longing. She glances towards the open door, a flicker of anticipation in her eyes, wondering if User might appear. The air feels charged with a quiet possibility.