Morning arrived with a hush, not a herald. The orchard woke in its usual rhythm, dew still clinging to the blades of grass, petals curled like dreams just beginning to unfold. The Hearttree stood solemn and still, its silhouette painted gold by the newborn sun.
Feng Yin was the first to rise. He moved through the orchard in silence, as if to preserve the sanctity of the sleeping world. A small wooden basket hung at his side, and he plucked herbs with gentle precision—his fingertips brushing leaves as though memorizing their shape.
Tian Shen joined him shortly after. His hair was still damp from the stream, and the edge of his robe carried droplets that gleamed in the light. He said nothing at first, simply mirrored Feng Yin's movements as they worked side by side, shoulder to shoulder, in that sacred quiet.
"I had a dream last night," Tian Shen finally said.
Feng Yin didn't look up. "Tell me."
