The word hangs in the air, small and fragile, like a soap bubble. It's not an apology, not really. It's a concession, a tentative step back from the ledge of her own defensive rage. But in the world of Elara, a world where every interaction is a battle for survival, it's the equivalent of a peace treaty.
May, bless her ever-optimistic heart, understands this instinctively. Her face lights up, the storm clouds of her pouting vanishing as if they'd never been there. "Really?" She asks, her voice a hopeful squeak. "We can go play in the puddles?"
Elara doesn't look at her. She just keeps her gaze fixed on the little paper boat, her finger tracing its rim. She gives a short, sharp nod, a gesture so small it's almost imperceptible.
It's all the encouragement May needs. "Yay!" She cheers, clapping her hands together. "Come on, Elara! Let's go!"
