The days began to blend, not into a monotonous slurry, but into a harmonious composition. Finnian's life acquired a new grammar. The syntax was no longer built on commands and executions, but on observations and responses. He woke, he worked, he listened, he slept. The sharp, analytical edges of his mind, once used like a scalpel to dissect the world, were being worn smooth, becoming tools for connection rather than isolation.
He found himself seeking out tasks. Not for praise, nor to accumulate some social currency, but for the simple, satisfying feedback of a problem solved, a need met. He helped stack firewood for the coming autumn, the repetitive, physical labor a quiet meditation. He weeded in the public gardens alongside the teacher, whose name was Lyra, learning to distinguish between a unwanted plant and a nascent vegetable by the shape of its leaves and the feel of its stem—a sensory knowledge no database could ever provide.
