Lara stood at the edge of the lawn.
Beyond it, the orchard glowed.
Thousands of tiny lights hung between the branches, scattered like fallen stars. They flickered in the dark, alive and restless, like a swarm of fireflies caught mid-flight.
She couldn't look away.
A sound stirred the air behind her. A footstep—light, nearly weightless. Most people wouldn't have noticed it.
But Lara did.
Since the year of silence, her senses had sharpened as if the world were compensating for what had been taken away. Every sound cut clean.
She didn't turn. Her gaze remained on the glowing orchard.
"I never thought I'd see the fiery little girl who loved gloves, punches, and kicks," a man said behind her, his voice edged with amusement, "standing around in a dress, admiring—" he glanced toward the trees, "—these trivial lights."
Lara turned slowly.
