It happened at the full table.
Three weeks after the river morning. Three weeks of the compound doing its ordinary things — the archive work resuming, Praxis's contact list being mapped, the dissolution reassessment proceeding under the new oversight structure. The work was real and ongoing but it had found its rhythm and the compound had found its rhythm around it.
The table had its people.
The specific configuration of a Thursday evening — everyone present, the food warm, the bond running at its gathered warmth, child Aldis doing something emphatic in Neva's arms, Rowan in the cradle at the table's edge taking the evening inventory with the focused attention.
The gift had been running at its ambient setting.
This was normal now — the gift's ambient reach was simply part of the table
