He didn't care. He just felt the fullness of presence. He touched each softly before rising: Grace's shoulder, then Lucy, then Rose's cheek. Each kiss was a promise to return. When he stepped outside, the orchard welcomed him: ribbons hung limp in the breeze, dew-stuck petals rested on the wooden planks, and blue mist curled at his feet like a living creature testing whether he might stir it awake again.
He walked barefoot to the old boundary line and paused. Beyond, the watchers waited , pale, shifting, distant. He pressed a hand to his chest and whispered, "Good morning." The faint pulse on his arm glowed stronger in response. The watchers trembled then drifted back. He exhaled, heart thrumming with wonder: this silence wasn't absence, but communication.
Grace appeared beside him as quiet as mist. She reached for his hand. "What now?"
