My daughter is seven years old. She has Kade’s dark hair, but her eyes are pure, luminous silver. She does not have the frenetic energy of her older brother. She moves with a deliberate, ancient grace that sometimes makes my breath catch. She is the blueprint. She is the living architecture.
"Good morning, little bird," Kade says, his voice softening into that specific tone of reverence he reserves only for her.
Elara stops in front of him and reaches up. Kade kneels, allowing her to wrap her small arms around his neck. As she hugs him, the blooming moss stops spreading, holding its shape in perfect, symmetrical patterns.
"The earth is singing today," Elara says, her voice quiet but carrying a strange, resonant clarity. She pulls back and looks at me. "It’s happy you’re awake."
I reach
