They welcome you into the house with kind smiles and open arms. They are happy to see you, and that is not something that you are accustomed to. They say how excited they are to have you live with them, and at first you are wary and uncertain, but after only a few days, you allow yourself to believe them; you have not yet learned better.

They show you to your room, and though it is small and has the smell of a space that has been closed off for a long time, it is clean and comfortable. You smile shyly as the woman helps you unpack your boxes, and giggle as the man makes a playful show of struggling to open the window. A warm summer breeze blows in, making the curtains billow and bringing with it the smell of the ocean. You have never seen the ocean, but these people have promised to take you when they have the time.

You smile when the woman reads you a story before bed, feel a little safer when she leaves the nightlight on, and relish in the comfort of the futon. The curtains continue their delicate dance, filling the room with moonlight and silver shadows and the smell of saltwater.

This is the fourth family you have found yourself with, but already they seem so much kinder than the two before. They seem to actually want you, and it makes you happy. You do not remember your mother, but you find yourself secretly wondering, when the woman smooths down your hair and kisses your forehead goodnight, if this is a little like what it might have felt like to have one.

For the first week, things are bright. They seem to be good. You think that perhaps you have left your misfortunes behind every time the man tips his head back to laugh or the woman pulls you in for a gentle hug. You think that maybe, this time, you have found a family that will stay.

When the first tiny creature shows up, speaks in a hiss and hovers outside the window, you are weary but not scared. It looks a little like a snake with wings; it is not so scary. You ignore it, because you have learned that others cannot see them, and even at so young an age, you are already wary of the disbelieving stares and the sharp words that come along with telling others about these things you can see.

You can't help but wonder what these people will do, if you were to tell them. They have listened to everything you've said so far with gentle smiles and warm eyes, a kind of regard you haven't experienced with any of the new families before. You think that, maybe, they'll listen to you about this, too.

You keep quiet for almost a month. You know that they have seen the times when you are jumpy or distant, eyes focused on something they cannot see. They have not yet kicked you out, though. You have heard no whispers, silenced as soon as you are noticed, of freaks and liars or new places to put you, away from anyone else who might see or hear.

The beginnings of something flicker to life in your chest, something that feels painfully like hope. It has been a while since you last felt such a thing, and you greets it with a tentative excitement.

When the window shatters two months in, you tell them the truth, hands shaking and eyes bright and pleading. Your throat is sore from how you screamed when the shadow hit the glass. The man and the woman glance at one another, a silent conversation that you cannot hope to be a part of, before the man leaves. The woman sighs and leans down, picking up the largest shards of glass and warning you to stay back in a tight voice. You do so, staring at her back from a corner of the room, twisting the hem of your shirt and trying to figure out what she might be thinking.

When the man returns, it is with a broom, and the two silently clean up the mess of glinting glass. Neither of them address you or what you have said, barely even glancing at you as they work, and you're not quite sure whether that is a good thing or not.

When they are finished and go to sit down together for tea, you silently follow along behind them and then linger outside the door, hidden by shadows. You wait, hand pressed against the wall, head tilted to try to catch their words. They talk in soft tones, but there are none of the cagey, hissed whispers you have started to figured out precede being sent to live with someone else.

When you creep back to the room you have begun to think of as yours, you stare up at the darkened ceiling, thinking. The ocean air is carried in through the skeleton of the window, just starting to grow chilly with the night and the changing seasons. They did not get you any extra blankets to ward against the night.

Still, you cannot help but smile, hope flaring a little brighter within your chest. You pull the covers a little closer and inhale deeply, take in the smell of ocean air and clean linens and the hint of tea wafting from the kitchen, wondering if this is what home is supposed to smell like. You think that, maybe, if you try to speak with them about what you can see, these people might just believe you.

.

(You will learn later to know better than to allow hope to bloom. After all, if you allow yourself to hope, it only hurts that much more when you are inevitably sent away once again. If you do not hope at all, you will not have to feel it crushed.)

.

You stay with this couple for three more months. They never take you to see the ocean.

Well, this is my first time filling a Natsume Week prompt. This was for day one, Greetings/Goodbyes. Sorry it's so short! I just learned about the whole thing a little while ago, so I've been scrambling to get anything done at all. Lol. I hope you enjoyed, regardless!