Four beds, three cushions, one heated pad — and she still sleeps in the box they came in. That's not fussiness. It's the floor. Down there she's at foot level with nothing behind her, so she never drops her guard. She dozes, then leaves for the windowsill. The box wins because it has walls.
Hung above eye level, Elva gives her what no floor bed can: she's above it all, with a woven shell around her back and flanks and the front left open — shelter, not a trap. Nothing reaches her unseen, so she sleeps instead of dozing. Two weeks in, you'll stop wondering where she is.













