For a moment, Luke wondered if he'd fallen asleep on the bench. If this was just another dream stitched from longing and confusion. After all, hadn't he just whispered it to the sky? A wish, not even shaped into a full sentence. Just a flicker of desire in the back of his mind:
I wish I could talk to her.
And now… there she was.
Saint Cynthia.
Not a messenger. Not a vision. Not even a knock at the guest room door. She had simply appeared, perched beneath her own stone likeness, as if she had always been there—waiting.
Luke blinked several times, half-expecting her to vanish between the lashes. But no, the Saint remained. Her presence was calm, like a ripple in still water rather than a storm crashing in. And yet, the air felt different now. Weightier. Sacred, in a way he couldn't explain.
"It's strange," he said softly, turning to Ilyrana as if needing a witness to confirm reality. "I didn't even… really pray."
Ilyrana's voice came quiet and reverent.
