The transition happened in less than a breath.
One moment, Luke was still seated at the table, fingers moving out of habit, expecting the familiar resistance of plastic keys beneath his fingertips. The next—his hands met soil.
Soft. Cool. Real.
His fingers sank slightly into the earth, grains clinging beneath his nails, the scent of flowers and open air rushing into his lungs so suddenly that he forgot to breathe for a heartbeat. Luke froze, hands still hovering just above the ground as if the keyboard might snap back into place if he blinked hard enough.
"…We're here," he muttered.
The flower field stretched endlessly around them, just as he had written it. Vast. Quiet. Alive. Countless blossoms swayed gently under the open sky, petals brushing against one another in a low, whispering hush carried by the wind. The sun hung comfortably above—not harsh, not dim—casting warmth that felt earned rather than imposed.
