Elysia sat in the soft hush of dusk, arms wrapped around her knees, watching the first few stars struggle through the still-glowing sky.
Malvoria, beside her, was gathering the remnants of their picnic: folding the blanket, tucking the half-empty wine bottle and cheese into the basket, shaking out crumbs for the birds.
Reluctance tugged at Elysia's chest. She wanted to press pause, to stretch this day until it filled a year, a lifetime—just her, Malvoria, the silver thread of the river, and the hush of the wild valley.
But Kaelith's bright face flickered through her mind, the way she always woke from sleep asking for them, as if absence itself were the strangest dream.
Malvoria, catching her gaze, smiled. "It'll still be here. Next year. Or next week, if we want." She squeezed Elysia's hand, then stooped to pack the last tart. "Let's go home."
