That evening, Rey moved through the kitchen like a man tracing a path he'd walked in another life.
Beans padded alongside him, tail arched in approval, then settled at her dish as he scooped in her dinner. He boiled water, added tea leaves to the blue teapot, and watched as the steam began to rise — curling in strange, delicate patterns. Like smoke remembering a shape.
The tea smelled a little different tonight. Brighter. Maybe sweeter.
He brought it to the table, set his sketchbook aside, and wrapped both hands around the cup. He didn't feel lonely. Not exactly. Just… quiet. Like his body had made room for something he didn't understand yet.
He drank. Slowly. One sip at a time.
Then, without realizing, he fell asleep in the chair.
He stood again in the orchard.
The silver-leaved trees hummed above him, their branches shifting with a wind that felt more like breath than air. The sky was deep gray and glowing faintly, like the hour just before dawn.
But this time, the orchard wasn't empty.
Someone sat at the long table beneath the trees.
Rey couldn't see them clearly at first. Their face was turned away. But they didn't move like a stranger. No fear stirred in him — only the slow bloom of recognition, like remembering a song he hadn't heard since childhood.
The figure wore a long robe the color of early sky — not blue, not gray, but something in between. Their hair, long and pale, shimmered like river-light. No jewels, no crown. Just presence. Gentle, grounded, complete.
They looked up as he approached.
And though they didn't smile, something warm passed between them.
Not invitation.
Not command.
Just room — for him. For this moment.
Rey sat down across from them.
The wooden chair creaked slightly beneath him. In front of him: a cup. Simple, white, glazed with the faintest pattern of leaves. It was already full.
The figure didn't speak. They didn't need to.
The silence felt like music that had been waiting to begin.
Rey reached for the cup. It was warm in his hands.
And for a long time — he didn't know how long — they just sat.
The world held its breath. The trees above shifted, soft and slow, like they were listening too. No questions. No riddles. No need to explain.
Only this: two people at a table in the quietest part of the universe.
And something inside Rey… loosened.
He didn't cry.
But if he had, the tears would not have been sad ones.
He woke slowly.
Beans was in his lap, curled into a soft comma of fur. The cup beside him was still warm. The air in the kitchen felt touched — like someone had just left the room, and their presence hadn't quite faded.
Rey looked out the window.
The city hadn't changed.
But inside him, something had.
A kind of stillness. Not numb. Not empty.
Just still.
He ran his hand over Beans' back, down to her tail. She purred but didn't open her eyes.
"I wasn't alone," he whispered. "I wasn't."
And though he didn't understand the dream — not fully — he felt it settle into him like roots.
Deep.
Quiet.
Unshakable.