Kafka stepped out into the corridor, still stretching his arms when the sound of faint voices drifted down from above. It wasn't laughter or the usual loud banter—these voices were soft, melodic, almost serene.
He blinked, curiosity piqued, and followed the sound.
He ascended the stairs quietly until he reached the rooftop terrace, where the morning breeze brushed against him. The moment he stepped through the archway, the sight before him was enough to make him pause.
The terrace had been transformed into a little paradise—lush vines coiling up carved trellises, vegetables sprouting from wooden beds, flowers curling along the edges of stone railings. Dew shimmered on every leaf.
It was Abigaille and Olivia's terrace garden, their pride and joy—though today it seemed only Abigaille and Evangeline were tending to it.
They stood side by side near a cluster of potted plants, the early light catching on their hair.
