Vincent/Vaelthor /Star~
The morning after our heartfelt talk under the old oak tree dawned bright and crisp, the kind of day where the sun filtered through the cottage windows like golden threads, weaving warmth into every corner. I sat at the rough-hewn wooden table, nursing a mug of herbal tea that Rayma—Dad—had brewed, its steam carrying hints of chamomile and mint. The scent mingled with the sizzle of eggs frying in the iron skillet, and for a moment, the lingering ache in my chest felt distant, like a storm cloud on the horizon.
Dad slid a plate in front of me, piled high with eggs, fresh bread slathered in butter, and slices of apple from the orchard out back. His amber eyes sparkled with that familiar kindness as he took his seat across from me. "Morning, Star. Sleep any better?"
