Soren was absorbed in writing, the ginger cat he had named Butterscotch nestled on a cushion nearby. He had been working for quite some time. By late afternoon, he was done for the day. He had been trying hard not to think of Sylara—it was difficult, until he focused on the memory of blue jewels. That, somehow, helped him avoid calling her every few moments.

  He set the coffee table and went to freshen up, slipping into a blue outfit. Then, softly, he called out her name—every fiber of his being reaching toward her.

  A little while later, there was a gentle knock on the door. He went forward to open it. Sylara stood outside, a serene look on her face. The teal-colored gown she wore made her hair look even more striking, the familiar blue ribbon still tied at the end of her braid.

  His gaze lingered a moment too long, until she gently called out his name, drawing him from the daze.

  Soren smiled warmly and stepped aside to welcome her in.

  She stepped inside. He pulled out a pair of slippers from the cabinet and placed them in front of her. Sylara stepped into them—her toes brushing against the soft cotton—and looked at them closely, a small, pleased expression touching her face.

  She walked down the lobby and entered the lounge: mint green walls, an L.E.D. screen, soft couches, and a low table in the middle. He motioned for her to sit down.

  Butterscotch peeked out from the room and approached Sylara, gazing up at her with quiet curiosity. Then, gracefully, she leapt onto the sofa and nestled against her.

  Sylara smiled gently and began to caress her, a golden glow tracing along her fingers like sunlight filtered through leaves.

  Soren returned with a glass of water. “I forgot to ask—can you eat human food?”

  Sylara nodded.

  “Good.” He placed the glass on the table before her. “That’s Butterscotch. I found her in the bushes.”

  Sylara picked her up, settling the cat into her lap.

  “She was separated from her mother and had been wandering. If you hadn’t found her, she would have died,” Sylara said softly, her voice gentle, like narrating a story.

  “How have you been, Sylara?” he asked.

  “Like I am every day,” she replied.

  “And how are you every day?” Soren questioned further.

  “Calm,” she answered.

  Soren looked at her with quiet fascination. “That’s an interesting answer. I was thinking… last time I told you so much, but Sylara’s been keeping secrets.”

  Sylara looked up at him, her eyes full of wonder.

  She took a deep breath, as if collecting the right words to start. Then, softly, she began to speak.

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  "I was born from the magic of the land," she said, her voice carrying a quiet admiration. "Where the light falls on snow... and the snow does not melt."

  Soren listened, completely still, as if even breathing too loudly would disturb the fragile beauty of her words.

  "It’s a place far from here—hidden, untouched. The light there doesn’t burn. It sings. The snow never thaws, yet it’s alive with warmth. That’s where I came into being."

  She paused, her fingers gently brushing through Butterscotch’s fur, her eyes gaining a nostalgic hue.

  "Glacina and Lumina—they found me. They became my guardians. My world," she said with a faint smile. "They raised me, guided me, taught me everything I know—about the balance of things, the nature of time, how light and frost aren’t opposites, but companions."

  She turned her gaze to the window, as if picturing a distant landscape only she could see.

  "The woods… they were my first home. The animals there, they are more than friends. They understand me. They speak in ways no one would understand, yet to me it's fluent and eloquent. I have befriended the wind and danced with the light that filtered through leaves. I learned to listen—to things others don’t notice."

  Then her eyes met Soren’s again, luminous and calm, but now with a thread of quiet vulnerability.

  "You are the first one to know," she said. "I'm honored," he warmly replied.

  They changed places throughout the evening, shifting between the living room and the kitchen, eating and drinking in between, but the conversation never once paused. His laughter would brighten the room like sunlight streaming through windows, while her smiles brought a quiet serenity, like moonlight over still water. Time slipped by unnoticed, the hours slipping away slowly.

  Finally, after dinner, she rose to leave. Soren disappeared for a moment and returned with the painting. This time, Sylara smiled and accepted it without hesitation, her fingers softly brushed against Soren's. Soren felt a soft shiver traveling through him. Watching her step out of the house filled Soren with a reluctance that pressed gently against his chest—but he reminded himself to be reasonable. She wasn’t his to keep, at least not yet.

  Sylara walked down the dirt path, her teal gown trailing softly behind her. After a few steps, she paused and turned back to look at the house. For a fleeting moment, something pierced through her—sharp and sudden. A searing tightness clutched her chest, stealing the air from her lungs. Then, just as quickly, it passed.

  Everything seemed as it was again—calm, steady. Only a few glistening drops on her forehead betrayed the moment, catching the light like dew before dawn.

  The next day, Soren visited the market, the soft sunlight illuminated the streets. He walked with quiet purpose, threading through the gentle bustle until he reached a small accessories shop tucked between a florist and a bakery.

  Inside, it smelled faintly of lavender and cedarwood. Soft instrumental music drifted through the air. Soren moved slowly, studying the displays—ribbons in every shades, scrunchies made of velvet and silk, dainty hair clips, some adorned with pearls, others with shimmering enamel leaves or stars.

  He picked out a careful selection—blues that reminded him of the sky in her eyes, greens like the woods she came from, warm golds, soft whites, pinks and peaches like the gown she wore, a few colors he thought would look striking on her and iridescent tones that shimmered like frost. Every piece he chose was a quiet guess, a hope of what she might like, a wish to know her better.

  The shopkeeper smiled as she wrapped the items in delicate paper and placed them in a small cloth pouch.

  As he stepped back out into the sunlit street, Soren felt oddly light, the bag in his hand like a secret. He didn’t know when he’d give them to her—or how—but the thought of seeing them in her hair, catching sunlight, was enough to keep his steps unhurried and his heart full.