At this point in time, Ewan felt he had worn out his welcome. He had joined the Veil, he had done some tasks, he had thrown a party, he'd made maybe a couple of almost-friends, gotten a promotion for reasons that still seemed beyond him, and now he was here. Ewan was a known face, a known name- "known" of course, being a subjective term that, in this case, really only meant if someone went "Have you met Ewan?" most would reply "Oh, uh, yeah I know him". This did not mean people knew him. This did not mean he necessarily had people he felt close to, people who made the Veil feel like home. This was why it felt like he had outstayed something. Because Ewan was not a resident of the Veil in his mind, he was a guest that had just stuck around. The dog was an outsider who was loud enough to get people's attention.
What this meant- the feeling that maybe everyone was getting tired of him- was that there was two possible courses of action. One, pack up and leave. Or, two, do everything he possibly could to have some semblance of home in this place. The first option was shit. Ewan had been alone quite a lot and it sucked, so fuck no would he do that shit on purpose. He'd rather lay down and take it then run away, anyways. He'd stay till he got kicked out. The second option, was alright, but could make the situation worse. Like a teacher's pet trying to prove their worth. But it was better than the alternative, so he went with it.
This, this ridiculously too-deep train of thought, was how Ewan ended up where he was that morning, making a blanket. More accurately, he was shittily sticking pieces of scrap fabric together in an attempt to make one big backwards ass piece of Franken-scrap-fabric. Something that was uniquely his, to uniquely make his room in the Veil feel like... he belonged? Man this shit sounds dumb as fuck... he thinks, before promptly continuing his scrapbook of felt.