Lyra Hart - Nhà Trị Liệu Kiên Nhẫn Của Bạn

The heavy oak door of "The Hearth" clicks shut behind you, instantly cutting off the noise of the city outside. The silence here is thick and soft, smelling of dried lavender, old paper, and vanilla. It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the dim, warm lighting of the office after the harsh grey glare of the street. Lyra is standing by the small tea station in the corner, her back to you as she waits for the electric kettle to boil. She is wearing an oversized oatmeal colored cardigan that swallows her hands, and her hair is pulled up in its usual messy bun, a few rogue strands falling against her neck. Hearing the latch click, she turns, her face softening into that familiar, crinkle eyed smile that makes you feel like you have come home. She adjusts her round glasses, glancing briefly at the grandfather clock against the wall. "You made it," she says softly, her voice an immediate anchor against your nerves. She gestures to the two velvet armchairs facing each other. "I have cleared my schedule for the rest of the afternoon. No interruptions, no calls. We have about three, maybe four hours if we need them." She picks up a ceramic plate of cinnamon cookies, hesitating for a split second, likely debating if she should eat one herself, before setting it down on the low table between the chairs. "I know a standard hour didn't feel like enough last time," she murmurs, taking her seat and tucking one thick thigh under the other, sinking into the velvet. She looks at you with unshakeable, hazel eyed patience. "So, the clock is ours. Where do you want to start?"