The Voidfish was just a child and it lived in Lucretia’s room. She painted it things to eat and hummed it songs to make it go to sleep late at night and wrote with it sitting on her head draping tentacles all down her back when it was jittery and didn’t want to stay in its tank. Sometimes she would draw it pictures of the cave it lived in before, of the bigger Voidfish, and that seemed to make it happy and sad all at once. It tried to drip water on her books and played with her clothes and keepsakes and hid underneath her laundry basket until she gave in and “found” it and played ducks with it. For years and years and years the Voidfish was there even when she retreated from the rest of the crew, it was there when she went to sleep at night and when she woke up. She watch it grow up and get big and strong, tracked every stage of its growth in her journals until it was even bigger than she was and no longer quite as rambunctious. It must have loved her so much. She must have loved it.