The village had transformed overnight.
By dusk, Teyora's once sleepy streets glimmered with soft yellow lanterns, strung like lazy fireflies across rooftops and between wooden poles. The festival's breath was everywhere — laughter from open courtyards, the clatter of stalls being assembled in half-light, children darting past with paper streamers, and the scent of roasted maize and spiced puff cakes drifting through the air.
Mira stood beneath one of the lanterns, watching a pair of older men haggle over bolts of fabric while a young girl painted flowers on the side of a wooden bench nearby.
It had been a long day — site work had wrapped just before sunset, and as Elijah had predicted, they'd closed earlier than usual. The streets around the bridge had become too busy to get much done. Mira had washed up, changed into a plain brown skirt and light shawl, and delivered the last batch of tablecloths just as the bakery's front windows began to glow with warmth.
Now, her arms folded, she lingered across the road.
From inside the bakery, she could hear Lydia's light, clear voice — she was giving instructions to two boys helping stack bread baskets.
Hazel stood by the window, rolling out dough. Mira couldn't see her face clearly, but the way her hands pressed into the dough — a little too firm, a little too fast — gave away more than words could have.
A few villagers passed by Mira, waving cheerfully.
"You coming to help set up the plaza?" one woman called. "They're lighting the fire pit soon."
"I'll be there in a bit," Mira replied with a smile.
She stepped away from the bakery, heading toward the square. The lanterns cast her shadow long and golden across the cobbled street.
Behind her, the bakery door jingled. She glanced back.
Hazel had stepped out.
"Mira," she called, quieter than expected.
Mira paused.
Hazel didn't move closer. "Thanks for bringing the cloths," she said, eyes not quite meeting Mira's. "My mom… she likes your mom's sewing. She said it's neat and... thoughtful."
Mira nodded. "She puts her whole back into it. Said it's not just fabric — it's mood. How people feel when they sit down to eat."
Hazel gave a small smile. "That sounds... exactly like something she'd say."
For a second, Mira thought she might say more. But Hazel just gave a nod, then turned and slipped back into the bakery.
Mira stood there for a moment, then turned slowly and continued down the path, where the music and warm light of the square waited.
Something in Hazel's voice tugged at her.
A quiet sadness.
A storm still gathering.