For the first time in years, the Blake home was filled with laughter.
Not the polite kind that faded too quickly, nor the strained chuckles meant to hide exhaustion — but real laughter. Warm. Effortless. Alive.
The golden month had begun.
---
The Superior Restorative had done what medicine and prayer could not. Within days of taking it, Lyla's strength began to return. The color came back to her cheeks, her steps lightened, her voice no longer wavered when she hummed. The faint cough that once haunted her nights had faded into memory.
Every morning, sunlight poured through the tall windows, glinting off magitek lanterns. The air smelled faintly of rain and home-cooked meals.
Sirius had never realized how heavy the silence used to be — not until it was gone.
Now, there was always sound: the clatter of dishes, Dominic's dry humor, Lyla's humming drifting through the hall.
It was peace — fragile, fleeting, but real.
---
One morning, Sirius woke to the sound of a pan sizzling.
He blinked in confusion — for months, it had been his job to cook breakfast.
He padded into the kitchen and stopped dead in the doorway.
Lyla stood by the stove, apron tied neatly around her waist, hair loose around her shoulders. Her hands moved gracefully as she flipped a pan of eggs with practiced ease.
She turned at the sound of his steps, smiling. "Morning, my little shadow."
He froze. "Mom… you're—"
"Standing?" she said playfully. "I do that sometimes."
He almost laughed. "You shouldn't overdo it."
"Oh, please. I've been sitting for two years straight," she said with mock indignation. "If I stay still any longer, I'll forget what balance feels like."
Sirius smiled helplessly. "Fair point."
Dominic entered behind him, stretching. "And here I thought I smelled breakfast in my dreams."
Lyla gave him a look. "You could help, you know."
"I'm moral support."
She rolled her eyes. "You're moral trouble."
Sirius couldn't help laughing. The sound startled him — not because it was loud, but because it was easy.
---
They ate together in the living room, sunlight streaming through the barrier-filtered glass. The city outside gleamed like crystal, every tower glowing with veins of light.
Dominic leaned back, sipping his coffee. "Can't remember the last time we had a meal without someone running late or collapsing."
Lyla smiled faintly. "Don't jinx it."
Sirius laughed softly. "Maybe the world decided to be kind for once."
Dominic snorted. "If it has, that means it's planning something worse."
"Don't start," Lyla said, swatting his arm.
"Just being realistic."
Sirius watched them bicker lightly, warmth blooming in his chest. For all the battles he'd trained for, this — this moment — was what he was truly fighting to protect.
---
Days turned to weeks, and the peace held.
Lyla walked with him through the city again, visiting small gardens and market plazas. Her hair shimmered white under the sunlight, glowing faintly like snow in a storm of gold.
"Do you remember this place?" she asked one afternoon, standing at a park overlooking the barrier's inner edge.
Sirius nodded. "You brought me here for the Festival of Lights."
"You rode your first chocobo that day."
He chuckled. "And fell off five seconds later."
"You cried."
"I was five."
She smiled, brushing his shoulder. "You're still my little boy."
He looked at her then — at the light in her eyes, the health in her smile — and for the first time since awakening in this world, he felt truly content.
"Thank you," she said suddenly.
He blinked. "For what?"
"For giving me time to see this again."
Sirius shook his head softly. "Don't thank me. Just keep living."
---
At night, he trained under the stars — not with desperation, but quiet purpose.
The flame obeyed his will now, burning steady in his palm. The frost followed next, precise and cold. Lightning coiled through his fingers like silk.
He could hold all three at once now — balanced, in harmony.
The resonance within him had adapted further. The more he practiced, the faster his control refined, as though his body and magic were learning to trust each other.
But he kept his promise to his mother.
He trained smarter, slower, listening to every strain, every shift.
Zangan had called it listening to your body. Cor called it respecting the blade.
Sirius thought of it as honoring life.
---
One evening, he returned home to find Dominic repairing a loose panel near the living room conduit. Lyla sat nearby, humming while she stitched a new scarf.
He joined them quietly, sitting on the floor.
"Hard day?" Dominic asked without looking up.
"Just long," Sirius said. "Cor made me run drills until sundown."
"Sounds like him."
Sirius smirked. "He said I'm learning too fast."
Dominic paused, giving him a pointed look. "That's not a complaint most people get."
"Then I'll take it as praise."
Lyla chuckled softly. "You always twist words to your advantage."
He grinned. "Must be genetic."
Dominic feigned offense. "I'll have you know my wordplay is honorable."
"Your wordplay gets you out of chores," Lyla said dryly.
Sirius laughed again, and for a moment, all three voices filled the home — overlapping, alive.
---
Later that night, when the lights dimmed and the city quieted, Sirius sat by his window, notebook open.
He flipped to a fresh page and began to write:
Day 27 since the cure.
Mother stronger than ever. Laughs daily. Walks the market again.
Father less serious lately. Still overprotective.
Training steady. Progress constant.
For once… no storms.
He stared at that last line, pencil hovering.
No storms.
It felt almost wrong to write. The world wasn't supposed to give him peace — not when he knew what was coming. Yet, a small part of him wanted to believe this reprieve wasn't temporary.
He smiled faintly, closing the notebook.
Outside, the barrier shimmered softly against the night sky.
A breeze drifted through the window, carrying the faint scent of rain — clean, alive.
He leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly.
For once, there was no urgency, no ache, no fear. Just the quiet certainty of being home.
---
Down the hall, Lyla hummed the lullaby she always sang when he was small. Her voice carried gently through the doorway, warm and full of life.
Dominic's soft laughter followed as he teased her about missing a note, and her playful scolding came in return.
Sirius listened, his eyes half-closing.
He wanted to etch the sound into memory — this melody of normalcy.
Because deep down, he knew peace was rarely permanent. But even fleeting, it was worth everything.