The child who dreamed the orchard into their bones woke to find dew clinging to their fingers.
They blinked slowly, not quite startled, not fully awake, the early light of morning spilling through the cracks in the wooden shutters. The room was unfamiliar, though warm.
A song lingered in the air—not one they could hear, exactly, but one they remembered. A harp strung with light. A voice carried in leaves. A rhythm made of breathing.
The child rose.
They had no name yet. Not here. Not in this new beginning. Only a feeling, the echo of a place they'd never seen except in dream. It was enough. The dream had rooted itself in their chest. Every step forward felt like following a melody.
They stepped into the world.
...
