"He's not thinking about tomorrow," Fate whispered.
"No," the Dreamer agreed. "He's thinking about this. The soil. The roots. The moment."
Fate considered that. "People used to cling so tightly to what might come next."
"And now?" the Dreamer asked.
"Now they live more fully in what's here."
The Dreamer's smile warmed. "Maybe because the one who once shaped tomorrow is finally learning how to simply… be."
Fate looked away, embarrassed but touched.
They continued walking until they reached the edge of the meadow, where a line of tall pines stood like quiet sentinels. Their needles whispered overhead as the pair stepped into the cool shade beneath.
Fate leaned against one of the trunks, feeling its steadiness, its age. "All those years," they murmured, "I thought being Fate meant… controlling. Directing. Holding the pen over every heartbeat."
"And now?" the Dreamer asked softly.
Fate touched the tree, feeling the life pulsing through it—slow, ancient, unhurried.
