The meadow shimmered beneath the sun, alive with laughter. A little elven girl—barefoot and bright-eyed—ran through a field of moonlilies with her arms outstretched like wings.
"Fly, Maera! Fly higher!" her father's voice rang like music from behind.
She turned with a giggle, her coppery curls tangled with petals. "You said I could ride the wind if I believed hard enough!"
"And what did the wind tell you?" her father knelt, lifting her up into his arms.
"It said you're heavy," she said, poking his nose.
He chuckled, that deep, warm laugh that made birds join in. "Well, the wind is very rude. But it's not wrong."
He carried her to the banks of the Whispering Spring, where their reflections shimmered together in the waters. She watched his eyes—the same brilliant emerald she bore—filled with pride, wisdom, and endless affection.
