Morning returned to the orchard, not with bells, but with the hush of held breath. The air felt heavier than dew, as if time itself had lowered its voice.
For the first time in living memory, no songbirds trilled before the sun's edge kissed the treetops. The orchard wasn't afraid. It was listening.
Tian Shen had awoken before dawn, not from a dream, but from the distinct sensation of being remembered. As though something older than him, older than the orchard, had whispered his name across the bark of every tree.
He walked barefoot to the courtyard, where the tree of blinking leaves stood. Each eye was closed now, fluttering only slightly as if in sleep. A few leaves had turned silver overnight. Not dead, not fallen. Transformed.
Lan approached quietly, holding a bowl of water infused with dream-herbs. "They see something," she said. "But not here. Not now. Something ahead. Or beneath."
