A week later, during playtime, the garden was noisy as usual. Luna was racing around the trees so fast she was practically a blur, her small wolf form kicking up leaves in her wake. Kelpie was splashing tiny arcs of water at anyone who came too close, giggling every time someone squeaked and jumped away. Rocky was crouched near a patch of pebbles, arranging them carefully by size and color, his little stone tongue poking out in concentration. And Felix stood nearby, pretending not to participate while clearly observing everything with the intensity of a nature documentarian.
And in the middle of all that movement, all that chaos, all that normal kindergarten energy—
Drake was sitting on the grass.
Not running.
Not shouting.
Not challenging anyone to a race or trying to set something on fire accidentally.
Just sitting there, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk storing nuts for winter, staring at absolutely nothing.
